Any Way You Want It
by Ponyboy '92
Summary: AU: January 2nd, 1985; "Wanted- Band member. Must have patience." Allen Walker's gonna need a whole lot more than just patience to keep up with their world of music and life. :KandaAllen, LaviAllen
1. Any Way You Want It

**Any Way You Want It**

I know I've got a lot of other fanfics to write, but this just might be…the _one_. The one fanfic that will allow me to die happy, just because I wrote it.

If you didn't catch it from the summary, it takes place in 1985, which means we _will_ be raping the 80's terms dictionary we found. This also is _very_ yaoi, which means it will get _very_ gay. But it won't be gay for quite a long time, so if you don't like the homo, then maybe you can still try and read…?

Oh, and weed! :D Btw there is so much profanity it isn't even funny, in a kind of funny way. D: Just so you know.

(Who are 'we'? 'We' are simply Kaza (the writer) and Emiggax (the artist/idea lady/'Let's talk on the phone about this for four hours and make it seem better than chocolate-frosted megacake!') This is the product of both of our imaginations. Emiggax's first, though.)

**Disclaimer: We do not own DGM. I do not want it. I think. Not too sure about Emi.**

_ONE_

January 2nd, 1985.

"_WANTED – Band member. Must have lots of patience. Any instrument is welcome, but synth is most wanted. If you can't even play, then don't even bother. Come to 134 Westover Road for more details._"

A white-haired teenager looked at the newspaper advertisement once more. And then he looked at the deceivingly normal home in front of him. But he was not even looking at a home, as he was at the front door, and currently staring down a pink rabbit hung like a wreath.

The sound of music was heard from within the house. He knocked on the door. "Hello?"

Nobody answered.

He knocked twice more. "Is anybody here?"

Obviously not, since nobody answered still.

The teenager frowned. "That's odd…I heard music," he thought aloud. His eyes widened in realization. "The _garage_."

Moving towards the garage, he folded the ad and put it in his jean pocket. The white-haired teen knocked on the garage door lightly, and waited for someone to answer. He huffed in annoyance as he stood outside. The boy found a handle at the bottom of the door, indicating that it must have been a push-up type of garage door.

He pulled it, slowly heaving the metal door up.

"Hello?"

And something swung at his neck. "Dear _Lord_!" But he narrowly dodged whatever it was.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?"

Gray eyes opened up to see a tall, dark, and angry teenager standing over him, an oddly shaped guitar on his shoulder. "Wha…?"

Dark eyes narrowed. "Who…the _fuck_…are _you_?" he repeated slowly, holding the guitar like a baseball bat about to strike. "And who the fuck told you to open the door? Seriously, what the hell?"

"I—"

"See Kanda?" a voice, obviously a girl's, spoke up. "This is why we _don't_ have another band member. You keep scaring them away!"

The teenager, Kanda, snorted. "If they shit their pants over something as small as this, then they don't deserve to fucking join." He sneered at the shocked white-haired boy on the ground and flipped the middle finger, walking away farther into the garage.

The teenager on the ground blinked.

A pale hand was offered to him. He grabbed it, thankful for some sort of help.

"I'm sorry," a tall, Asian girl said with a quirky smile. "He's not always like this, I swear!"

"Except for the part where he probably _is_?" the boy replied, smiling back. "I'm Allen Walker."

"Lenalee Lee. And he isn't always so…angry. Sometimes Kanda's just grumpy." Lenalee laughed lightly. "He's a blast to be around either way, so don't mind him. He's part of the reason why I asked for patience in the ad…you are here for the ad, right?"

"Oh. Oh! Of course!" Allen pulled the newspaper clipping out of his pocket. "I was knocking on the door, but nobody answered, so I almost got my head bashed off by opening the garage. What the bloody hell is wrong with that guy, anyway?"

"His name is Yuu Kanda, yes, he _is_ Japanese," Allen closed his mouth. "He plays guitar. And, like I said before, he's just a little…grumpy."

"He tried to _kill_ me."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it." Lenalee turned her head towards the garage. "Kanda, were you trying to kill this guy?"

"Hell _yeah_!" Kanda snapped back. "He had no fucking business opening the garage like that!"

She ignored him. "So…what do you play?" the girl asked, smiling.

Allen tapped his chin. "I play the violin, piano, cello, flute—"

"You know what I mean, smart guy."

He smiled. "I play the synthesizer. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Lenalee opened her mouth to answer, but was abruptly interrupted.

"_Fuck_!" a voice cursed loudly as the door into the house from the garage opened. A tall one-eyed redhead hopped out, several cans in his arms. "Lenalee! I dropped a cola can! Forgiveness?"

The black-haired girl rolled her eyes. "Is the can broken?"

"Uh, no… but it's on the ground now!"

"Then you can just pick it up."

"Alright!" the redhead picked up the can and held it out to Kanda. "Here Yuu, it's a token of appreciation."

"Thanks." The guitarist deadpanned, taking the can. "My token of appreciation to you will be an appreciating foot up your ass if you give me a can from the ground again."

"Right, whatever." The redhead turned around to give Lenalee her can, and cocked an eyebrow at the boy next to her. "Who are you?"

"This is Allen Walker." Lenalee introduced. "He plays synth, and didn't run off screaming at Kanda's attack."

"Fuckin' A," the guy said, impressed. "They usually shriek like pussies."

"Allen, this is Lavi." The tall girl said, patting the redhead's shoulder. "He plays drums and isn't _nearly_ as stupid as he looks."

"Yo." Lavi greeted, grinning. The smile fell right off his face as he hit his head. "Damn! I didn't get you a soda! Hey, Yuu, did you drink yours yet?"

And empty can hit him on the face. "Okay…well…" Lavi looked down. "Here ya go." And he gave Allen his can of soda.

The white-haired teen blinked. "Why, thank you," he said, smiling.

Lavi rubbed his chin. "No problem—Wait, what did you say?" he demanded, oddly serious.

"Thank you?"

"Say it again!"

Allen looked over at Lenalee, who shrugged. "Er, thank you?" he repeated.

"Your voice, man?" Lavi said happily. "Your accent is so awesome! Where're you from? France? Germany? Russia? Well, not Russia, I think they're kinda pissed at us."

"I'm British." Allen answered uncertainly.

"Fuckin' _A_!" the redhead leaned closer. "Say something British!" he commanded, grinning. "Please?"

"I'm not following."

"Y'know, like 'jolly good' or 'chaps'!"

"Uh, jolly good chaps?"

Lavi clapped his hands together. "I love him already, Lenalee," he said. "He's totally in."

"The hell he is." Kanda snapped, walking up. "I bet he can't even fuckin' play synth, the fag."

There was something on the edge of Allen's mind, something that told him that he wasn't going to get along well with this guy. "And I bet you can't play the guitar, jerk," he muttered under his breath.

Kanda stared at him. "Did he just say what I think he fucking said?" he asked his band mates. "He just said that I can't play."

"I don't know, Yuu," Lavi said sarcastically. "Why don't you show him what you can do?"

"Yeah, I think I'll fuckin' do that." Kanda stepped away to get his two toned black and white guitar. "Let's see if he can at least keep up with me."

Allen snorted. "You're quite arrogant, aren't you?" he asked, annoyed.

"With good reason." Lenalee said, amused. "He's not even pretty good."

"So he sucks?"

"No, quite the opposite—"

A guitar riff started off fast, and Allen looked over at the Japanese man. The music coming from the amplifier was pumped, but the song was sped up so fast that the teen could hardly recognize it. Kanda's fingers were almost blurring at their speed, and he stared at Allen defiantly.

"Can you guess this song?" he asked cockily. "I wouldn't be freaked if you didn't. Fuckin' bunk."

"Stairway to Heaven," the British teen said, eyebrow raised. "Led Zeppelin. I'm surprised you could play it at that speed. In fact, I'm surprised _anyone_ could play it at that speed."

"Told you." Lenalee muttered, smiling.

Kanda put his guitar back on its stand. "Now it's your turn, poser," he growled, crossing his arms.

"Alright." Allen cracked the knuckles on his right hand. "Do you have a synth?"

"Ha ha hell no." The Asian girl said. "But Komui _does_ have a piano in the living room. Show us what you can do with that."

She led him through the door Lavi came through, which showed way through a kitchen to the exceedingly normal-looking living room with an aged classical Stanford piano pushed over to the side. "This will do, right?"

"Yes, it's just fine." Allen replied.

Lavi waggled his eyebrow at Kanda. "Aren't you totally pumped, man?" he asked. "He's, like, _British_!"

"Wow." Kanda deadpanned. "And Lenalee's Chinese and I'm Japanese and _you_ are American. It's a fucking racist rainbow. Shut the fuck up."

"Harsh, Yuu, real harsh." Lavi yawned. "C'mon Brit! Let's get this show on the road!"

Allen sat on the piano bench.

He lightly tapped the minor C key, looking forward.

Kanda snorted. "Told you he fuckin' sucked."

"Be quiet!" Lenalee shushed.

Allen played a single song, humming lightly underneath his breath.

Kanda crossed his arms. "Together in Electric Dreams, Phil Oakey?" he asked.

The boy at the piano nodded, still playing.

Lavi leaned over to Kanda. "I've never heard of it. What kind of song is it?"

"Came out last year in the UK..." Kanda replied thoughtfully. "You wouldn't know it."

"Gee, thanks."

Allen abruptly stopped playing. "Is that good enough for you?" he asked Kanda who simply stared at him.

"Whatever."

* * *

:D I love editing sometimes.


	2. Too Shy

_TWO_

Kanda walked back towards the garage.

Lavi followed him, a concerned look on his smiling visage. "What's up?" he asked, eyebrow cocked.

The Japanese man began putting his guitar in the case. "It's six o-fuckin'-clock," he growled. "I'm going _home_." He stomped back up the stairs into the main house and started towards the door. The redhead continued to follow him with a small frown.

"Why? You haven't told him how fuckin' awesome his playing was!"

"I don't need to tell him, because it fuckin' _wasn't_. Now get the fuck outta my way, I'm leaving." Kanda pushed pass Lavi roughly, storming out the house through the front door.

The redhead sighed. "He could've gone through the fuckin' garage, the jerk." He turned to Allen and Lenalee. "Well, Brit, you've gotta go. Me and Lenalee—"

"Lenalee and I." Allen corrected, but then smacked a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, force of habit."

"It's okay, you're British." Lavi replied, grinning. "Now, like I was saying, Lenalee and I gotta discuss this. We'll keep in contact, for real. Don't call us, we'll call you, all that shit."

The white-haired boy furrowed his eyebrows, nodding.

"Allen, to be truthful…" Lenalee started, frowning.

"You could be the next Elton John, kid," Lavi finished, lightly punching the boy on the shoulder. "But less 'bisexual'. Keep your head up. We've gotta convince Kanda first, then we can get this shit underway."

Allen shook his head in disbelief. "I don't even know the jerk, but I already know you're going to have a hard time."

"Look Lenalee! He's one of us already!"

* * *

January 3rd, 1985.

"Allen! Hey, Allen!"

Was someone calling him? The white-haired boy thought idly as he received his tray of food.

"Allen!"

Apparently someone _was_ calling him. Allen turned around and saw a mostly empty table among the students in the cafeteria. A familiar Chinese girl was standing up, waving at him. "Allen!" she called loudly. The teenager smiled and walked towards her table, only to freeze at the sight of two also familiar men flanking her on the sides, lounging on the table's bench.

"Err," he started, sliding onto the bench with his food. "I thought you two were grown men."

"And I thought you were fuckin' twelve, so shut it." Kanda snapped, his arms crossed.

Lavi pulled a lollipop out his mouth slowly. "We're eighteen, me n' him. Seniors, woo!" he cheered.

"What about you?" Allen asked Lenalee.

She smiled with a small shrug. "I'm sixteen, and a junior. You must be a freshman."

"No… I'm fifteen. I'm a sophomore."

"Oh." Lenalee replied, blinking. "That explains why you're so _adorable_ then!" She reached across the table and poked his cheeks, making the younger boy blush.

"Doesn't explain why he hasn't hit puberty." Kanda grumbled. "He's shorter than you, Lenalee."

"Shut up!" Allen snapped. "I'm still growing!"

"Is that what you tell yourself?" He looked at the sheer amount of food on Allen's tray. "You know eating like a blar isn't gonna help you, right?"

"Bite me! I'm only…_ensuring…_my…_bulk_ for when I _do_ get bigger."

Kanda couldn't help it. He coughed.

And he coughed some more.

And he leaned over, coughing in a high tone.

"Is he dying? Please tell me he's dying." Kanda looked up just to glare at him. "Oh, _damn_."

"He was laughing. I think." Lenalee explained, jabbing the Japanese teen in the stomach, which made him straighten up.

The white-haired boy chewed on some fries. "It sounded like he was dying."

"He doesn't laugh often."

Lavi snorted. "Understatement, Lenalady. That's the first time he's laughed in about four years. I'm stoked about this guy, man! He made Kanda laugh…or hack, but whatev'," he said excitedly. "With you, our band will be un-fuckin'-stoppable. Wait, you do have your own synth, right?"

Allen paused in the devouring of his burger. "Of course," he replied. "I wasn't exactly counting on you lot to have one anyway. They really are bloody expensive."

"I love this guy, Lenalee." Lavi whispered loudly, sticking the sucker back in his mouth. "He makes me wanna be British, although I probably am _somewhere_ in my bunk family tree."

"Aren't you American?" Allen asked.

The redhead laughed. "American to me is codeword for 'I don't know WHAT the fuck I am'. Not many Americans do, these days."

"Speak for yourself." Kanda said.

"Shut it, Yuu." Lavi retorted. "You aren't even that American. You're, like, from New York and Japanese and everyone and their fuckin' mom knows you're from New York and Japanese. You don't count."

The eighteen-year-old smirked. "That's my fuckin' point." Now Allen could kind of notice a Flatbush accent within Kanda's speech.

"You two say the word 'fuck' a lot." Allen noted aloud.

Both older teenagers glanced at him. "You got a fuckin' problem with it?" Kanda demanded, his upper lip curling in a defined sneer.

"No…no." The gray-eyed teen shook his head. "Just…making a statement."

"Keep your statements to yourself, dickweed," the long-haired teenager snapped.

"Believe me, I _will_."

The shrill sound of the bell was sounded, and the older trio made to get up from the cafeteria table and move towards their classes.

Allen frowned. "Hey—"

"We'll call _you_ kid, don't worry." Lavi chided with a smile. "It'll be okay."

Somehow, Allen doubted this.

* * *

"Yo, Allen!" Lavi called, making the boy pause in his trek to the bus. "What're ya doing, riding _that_ thing?"

Allen looked over at Lavi. "I really do need to get on the bus, Lavi," he said, annoyed. "I'm not eighteen and can drive like you and the jerk." His tone was ever-so-slightly spiteful.

"Kid, kid, kid," the redhead chastised, walking up to Allen. "I'm here to pick you up! We're giving you a ride so we can pick up your synth and shit."

The gray-eyed boy looked suspicious, making the older teen huff.

"C'mon Allen…I've got candy?" he bribed.

Allen laughed, walking away from the bus. "You can't possibly be serious," he said, following the tall eighteen-year-old.

"It got you to come, didn't it?" Lavi replied. They walked towards the student parking lot, the winter wind biting at their skin lightly.

"Hey, do you like Duran Duran?" the one-eyed teen asked idly.

"I liked Hungry like the Wolf. The song is catchy."

"Ah, but The Reflex is a lonely child." Lavi said, bumping shoulders with the shorter teen.

"Obviously." Allen replied. "Just waiting in the park, right?"

"God I love you." He flashed a white smile. "And speaking of parks, there's our ride."

The ride ended up being a gray '79 Chevrolet van, kept in surprisingly good condition considering the age and value of it. Kanda was leaning on it, eyes forward and arms crossed. He sported an outfit of blue jeans, black Vans, and a black fitted shirt made him look even older, thereby striking Allen's jealously once more.

"Hey, Yuu, I got him!" Lavi called. "Quit burnin' out and pay attention!"

Kanda snapped out of whatever trance he was in. "Took you long enough," he grumbled, dropping something to the ground and grounding it with the heel of his shoes. He glared at Allen. "When you get in my fuckin' car, don't touch any of my shit, got that?"

"As if you'd have anything I'd want to touch." Allen replied, annoyed.

Lavi choked. "Did I mention I love you?" he said, opening the back of the van. "Jump in, Brit."

Allen got in the back of the van quickly, and was immediately hit with the oddest smell.

"Geez…" he grumbled, covering his nose. "What the hell _is_ that smell?"

"Whatchu say?" Lavi asked as he slid into the front seat. "You asked where Lenalee is? She went ahead home, to look for shit."

"No, I was actually asking—"

"Shut the hell up, both of you." Kanda said as soon as he got in the car. "I'm about to drive."

Before the white-haired teen could open his mouth to retort, the vehicle took off screeching through the parking lot.

"If I ever went to Disneyland, THIS would be just like it!" Lavi yelled to Allen over the squealing tires and loud curses from Kanda.

"I…I think I feel sick—"

"It's okay! Just…don't barf, because he will really kill you!"

* * *

"Shit, your place is tough…" Lavi whispered in awe.

"It's just a house." Allen replied, looking for whatever was so special about where he lived.

"It's a _triangular_ house man. That's rad by itself!"

Kanda groaned in annoyance. "Are we gonna stand here or are we gonna get this kid's shit?" he demanded, moving towards the gate. Allen held out a hand, stopping him.

"I have a dog," he explained. "A dog that's not prejudiced when it comes to attacking intruders." He opened the gate himself, Kanda standing back warily. "Timcanpy! Come here, boy!"

A small, yellow, floppy-eared dog bounded over to Allen from the backyard, curled tail wagging. His paws were white and a white cross-like marking was on his face. The dog barely came up to Allen's calf, which made Kanda sneer.

"Woof!"

And it had the sharpest, most vicious looking teeth the two eighteen-year-olds had ever seen on a dog. Ever.

"Hi boy!" the pale boy cooed, bending down to pick him up. "Is everything still safe?"

Timcanpy licked his face, tail still wagging. "I'll take that as a yes." He turned the dog towards the other two. "These are Lavi and Kanda, they're friends. I doubt they're going to try and mug me, boy." The dog nuzzled him, pawing at his collarbone. Allen grinned. "No biting, okay?"

"Arf!" Timcanpy barked lightly as Allen put him back down. The small dog trotted towards Lavi and Kanda, who both stood stock-still at the sight of the dog's teeth.

"What's up, dog?" The redhead greeted, and then giggled a little. "Never thought I'd say that to a real dog." He bent down, holding up his fist. "Can you do solids?" he asked slowly, since the dog was apparently quite smart.

Timcanpy stared at him. "Woof." He pawed Lavi's fist.

"Sweet." The green-eyed teen said, grinning. "Your dog does _solids_ man! Fuckin' A!"

Kanda stared at he dog, who looked up at him in return. "What?" he asked rudely.

And Timcanpy bit him.

* * *

"Your dog _bit_ my fucking leg!" Kanda snarled, limping up the stairs slowly.

"I know." Allen replied, trying to not smile. "I told him he was a very bad dog for it."

"And then you gave him a fucking _Scooby Snack_!"

"No…it was a dog treat of disapproval." The three stopped at a room with a creepily white door. "I just have to get the key to the garage from here." He opened the door.

The other two stood there. "Holy shit." Lavi said, blinking. "Your room is…uh…"

"Fucking creepy?" Kanda asked, looking around. "What are you, Goth? Is that a mace? Are you waiting for the Romans to attack or some shit like that?"

"No, yes, and no." Allen replied, sifting through a box. "I like to collect items related to the Dark Ages."

"It looks like you mobbed a Halloween store."

"Let us go get my synthesizer, hm?"

* * *

Lavi huffed as he pushed the keyboard stand into the back of the van, next to the amplifier and the stand. "Your synth is fuckin' rad, Brit," he said to Allen, admiring the electronic instrument.

Allen smiled. "Thanks."

"I think we're gonna make some beautiful music together." Lavi said with a smile. "We're gonna rock this fuckin' town, Allen!"

"I suppose…?"

Kanda walked out the house, closing the front door. "I called Lenalee, and she said she found your notebook, Cyclops," he said as soon as he reached them. "We can start practice as soon as we get there. And you, brat, are not gonna practice with us."

The younger teen nodded. "Why?" he asked.

"Because you're a fuckin' noob, that's why." Kanda got in the front seat, slamming the door.

"I'm pretty sure he meant it like 'Because I want you to get to know how we play efficiently and not fuck up so I can actually have a reason to hate you'." Lavi explained shutting one back door closed. "Jump in, Brit, we've got to go."

Allen nodded, stepping in and over the amp, sitting down close to Kanda's seat. Lavi shut the door and ran over to the passenger side as Kanda started up the ignition.

"Come on, Yuu!" he exclaimed as he jumped into the van. "Let's go rock this world!"

Kanda rolled his eyes. "I don't need you to tell me that." And the van screeched down the road.


	3. The Reflex

_THREE_

"You, sit there."

Kanda pointed at an old gray couch off to the side of the garage.

Allen blinked. "But…I don't _want_ to." He cringed. "It looks…unsanitary." He really wanted to say he thought it had fleas, but he had a feeling Kanda wouldn't react well to that.

"Are you baggin' my couch, brat?" the older teen demanded slowly. "Because if you are—"

"Sometimes, I think you actually _look_ for reasons to swing at someone, Kanda." Lenalee said, pushing a red notebook into Lavi's arms at his black drum kit. "Here're your lyrics, Lavi. Keep up with them, _please._"

"Awesome." The redhead said, flipping through the pages. "Which song are you going to mutilate today?"

"Ha ha." Lenalee mocked. She flipped her long black hair over her shoulder. "If you must know, it would be nice for us to start on that unnamed song on the fifteenth page. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Hmm…yeah." Lavi closed the book. "I don't know about that one…it kind of creeps me out." He threw the book on the couch next to Allen, who was only sitting there as a last resort. "Watch it for me, would ya? Thanks Brit!"

Lenalee frowned. "What do you mean it creeps you out?" she asked. "You wrote it!"

"Is that supposed to make it creep me out even less?" the one-eyed teenager started tapping on the snare drum rhythmically. "Whatev', you're the boss, Miss Lenalady. I submit to your feminism and shit."

"Awesome. Kanda!"

"What?" Kanda snapped, tuning his guitar irritably.

"You _do_ know which song we're talking about, right?"

The Japanese teen looked at her. "The creepy sounding one, duh." He positioned the guitar in his arms. "Can we start now?"

"You guys don't know your own talent." Lenalee scolded lightly.

Allen raised his hand. "Excuse me, Lenalee?" he called lightly.

The Chinese girl turned to him. "Yes, cutie?" she replied with a smile.

"What do you do, exactly?"

"Idiot." Kanda muttered underneath his breath. Lenalee threw him a dirty look.

"I sing, of course!" she said, smirking. "I do it way better than these two dorks."

"Hey!" Lavi whined. "I can sing…if I'm drunk."

"I think it's the opposite, Cyclops." His friend retorted. "Last time you sang while you were drunk I almost flushed all of my shit down the toilet. It was just that fucking bad."

"I bet you sing weird Japanese voodoo songs while you shower."

"And I sing them about you, praying to my Japanese god for your Japanese-like death. In Japan." The long-haired teen strung his guitar ominously.

The bass drum began sounding steadily. "Fuck you." Lavi replied cheerfully.

Kanda's fingers began moving, the guitar's strumming light without the amp. "Not in a dick year, Cyclops."

Lenalee shrugged at Allen, who stared at the two in confusion. "They've known each other for a long time," she said. "They always act like this."

The white-haired boy smiled. "It's a nice friendship to see, if I were entirely honest." He picked up Lavi's red notebook. "Sorry for interrupting your practice."

The long-haired girl shook her head and stepped to the middle of Lavi and Kanda.

"Ready?" asked Kanda.

She inhaled slowly. "_Its dark and cold inside, I'm sitting all alone—  
One step at a time and you're getting closer.  
You know I'm hard to find... but even then you'll try,  
To take a empty path into the night..._" she sang softly.

Lavi didn't miss a beat as he immediately began tapping the floor tom with his right drumstick, the left beating against the right tom. Kanda's fingers curled against the taut strings of his guitar, and the notes languidly blended with the slow tempo of a drumbeat, creating a sound as calming as it was timely.

Allen blinked. "Nice…" he hummed, impressed.

"_The door is wide open…_" Lenalee continued, her subtly scratchy yet charming soprano echoing in the enclosed room. "_'Is anybody there?'  
You know there's no room in my heart  
I don't know why...but it's hard to breathe  
You know there's no room in my heart._" Her tone rose in order to not be overpowered by the sudden rise in volume from the instruments.

"_No one's been here before, it's only me and you—  
You're the first to see the light from my door—  
Don't come closer now, I'll only disagree.  
I've got tears that I don't want you to see..._"

The drumsticks in Lavi's hands quickened to push the emphasis of pace. "_I can't feel it... I can't feel it—  
I can't feel you there, I'm reaching out for your touch__—_" Lenalee stopped singing, a confused look on her face.

"Okay, maybe it is a little creepy," she said.

Lavi ceased with his drumming. "Told ya." He yawned. "But you made it sound rad, so I'm down with it."

Lenalee turned to Allen. "So, what did you think?" she asked.

"That was _brill_!" Allen exclaimed, grinning excitedly. "I mean, it was a treat to just _glance_ at the passion that makes up your music!"

"I'm totally gonna need a British dictionary for this guy." Lavi whispered.

Kanda grunted. "So you admit we don't need you, right?" he asked, glaring.

"Well, I said you were passionate, but even the most perfect of songs can be better." Allen stood up, stretching. "Lavi, do you think you could possibly help me get my synth?"

"Anything for the British!" the redhead said happily, getting up from behind his trap kit. "Yuu, your van keys, please!"

A flash of silver and various other colors was thrown at him, and Lavi caught it immediately. "Thanks!"

Allen pushed opened the garage with a creak, and they walked to Kanda's van.

The white-haired boy looked at the various keychains on the ring of keys that Lavi sifted through. "I can't say I saw him as the type of person to collect keychains," he commented.

Lavi barked a laugh. "He doesn't. I put these on whenever I get the chance, since its fun to catch a look at Yuu's pissed face aimed at me." He cursed as he lost the right key, making him look through the keychains again.

"Is that a maple tree leaf?" Allen asked, pointing at a green leaf keychain with several points.

The question made the redhead stop all searching for the car's key.

Lavi stared at him with his one visible eye.

"You're…you're kidding me, right?" he asked.

"It looks like a green maple tree leaf. Am I wrong?"

"You aren't kidding me." Lavi coughed into his fist. "I'll, uh, I'll be right back. I've got to go…not laugh at you. Yeah." He ran back inside the garage and plopped face first on the couch, body racking with laughter.

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "I don't see what's so funny," he muttered to himself.

Kanda walked out the garage, his key ring in his hand. "Your ignorance, dork." The Japanese teen said grumpily.

Allen huffed. "I don't see what I'm so bloody ignorant about. I just asked a simple question, and I didn't even receive an answer. So…what is it?"

"Marijuana, brat." Kanda answered, opening the back.

"Oh. OH." The white-haired boy blinked. "Wow, now I really do feel like I need to be laughed at."

"Then don't worry, because Lavi's already taking care of that. Now, grab the synth stand. I'm getting the synth itself."

"Why do you have a marijuana keychain on your key ring anyway?"

"Because I fucking want to. Grab the goddamn stand, brat!"

Allen rolled his eyes. "Thanks for nothing." he grumbled, grabbing the stand.

They walked back into the garage, where Allen was first so he could at least set the stand up.

"Oh no," Lenalee said in amusement. "You might want to put it moreover to the right. You do need a plug, don't you?"

Except, moreover to the right was where Kanda usually stood with his guitar, since the amp needed electricity too.

"Err, okay then." He set up the stand a little behind the guitar hold. He moved away to allow Kanda to put the synthesizer on top of the stand. "Thank you."

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda snapped.

Allen opened his mouth to probably say something condescending back, but the door from the house burst open, a tall, Asian man running into the garage.

"Oh Lenalee, I heard your wondrous singing all the way from work!" he exclaimed, hugging the Chinese girl passionately. "If only I could truly trust you being in a musical congregation with two men…!"

"Are you saying you don't trust me, Komui?" Lenalee asked, irked.

Komui gasped, pushing his glasses up. "Of course not!" he replied. "I'm saying I don't trust those two, with the _penises_!"

"Whoa, too much info!" Lavi cried, covering his ears as he was still face-down on the couch.

Kanda rolled his eyes. "Shut up, creep." he said.

"See?" Komui demanded. "Especially Kanda! Who _knows_ what he'd do when alone with you, Lenalee!"

"I severely doubt he is so unpredictable." Allen said, smiling.

The Japanese teen narrowed his eyes at him. "Shut the fuck up!" he snapped.

"See what I mean?"

"I love the British!" Lavi yelled, his voice slightly muffled.

Komui blinked from behind his rectangular glasses. "I've never seen you before…" he commented.

"No shit Sherlock," Kanda muttered. "Take a minute and try again."

"Quit being such an ass. Allen, this is Komui, my brother. He works in robotics." Lenalee introduced. "And Komui, this is Allen Walker. He's interested in playing the synthesizer for our band."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lee." Allen said charmingly, holding out his hand.

Komui smiled. "No, the pleasure is all mines." The Chinese man narrowed his eyes. "You must be Marian's son."

"What? No!" Allen yelped, holding up his hands. "I'd rather play in traffic than to be _his_ son! I'm his _nephew_. I'm living with him until I graduate…then I'm gone. _Thank you Lord._" He took a shuddering breath. "How do you know Cross? Please don't tell me he owes you money."

"How do I not know him?" the man asked, amused. "We went to the same school in London, and he's a very respected name in the aeronautical field of science."

"That's quite funny, since I just thought he was a womanizing slacker." Allen muttered spitefully.

"Lenalee never told me you went to her school…and Marian never told me he lived in Virginia...I feel very out the loop." Komui sighed, crossing his arms.

"Oh, I'm a sophomore, and we never knew each other until recently."

"By recently, he means yesterday." Lenalee chipped in. "I don't know _how_ I missed him. White hair!"

"And Cross is…not here. He will not be here for a very, very long time." Allen glared at the ground. "I've been abandoned."

"How unfortunate. Well, good luck with that and you may have one cookie." Komui said cheerily.

Lavi looked up. "But—But—"

"Lavi, you will never get another cookie after what you did to my last batch."

"I was only _helping_! Chill out, man!" the redhead whined. "I would share _my_ cookies with you!"

"Except, Lavi, _I_ do not hide _pot_ in the batter." Komui walked back into the house, hair flipping behind him.

"I was only trying to spread the Christmas joy!" Lavi yelled after him.

"You put _marijuana_ in his cookie batter?" Allen asked, shocked. "On Christmas?"

The green-eyed teen smiled bashfully. "I totally could've gotten away with it, if he weren't so fucking observing."

Lenalee hit him on the head. "He's supposed to be observing, he's a _scientist_."

"For robots! What do you have to observe about robots?!"

"Just…shut up, Lavi."

Kanda was ignoring the two passionately, and then he caught sight of Allen's smile, which was covered by his gloved hand.

"Why the hell are you wearing gloves?" he asked, annoyed. "It's not that cold."

Allen glanced at him. "Why is there a marijuana keychain on your ring?" he retorted.

"Not _this_ shit again…"

"You can ask me personal questions but I can't ask about a bloody keychain?" the white-haired boy sniffed, insulted. "Very fair, _twat_."

"What'd you call me?"

"A twat, that's what!"

Lavi stuck a sucker in his mouth. "Unfair!" he exclaimed. "Yuu's already got a head start!"

Lenalee sat next to him. "He's got the charm of a crippled pitbull," she replied. The girl sighed as Kanda stood up at his full height against Allen, who squawked in indignation. "It's always a race with him."

"Don't put it that way, Lenalady!" the redhead whined. "Then it looks like I might never win!"

* * *

Original Plan: Mush various 80s songs together. FAILED. Reason for Failure: Songs didn't really match up or make sense, and it hurt me inside.

Plan B: Make up own damn song. PHAILED. Reason for Phailure: "What made up most eighties songs?" Emiggax did not skip a beat with her response of "Drugs. Definitely drugs." So I wrote some shit about being high as the sky blah blah blah and she was all "LOL you weren't supposed to take it that seriously" and I was all "STFU"

Plan C: Use random eighties song, but...mix up...the lyrics. NOT FAILED. I think. Thanks Living in a Box, we definitely don't own you, but I love you so much (/masculine swoon). Song was Room in your Heart, which is creepy, yet _effective_.

LOL British slang. Next Allen will be using Cockney rhyming slang or some shit like that (Hell no, those words are too complicated, and my china wouldn't understand it. China equals china plate equals mate. See how complicated this shit is?).

"Why are Kanda and Lavi saying the word 'fuck' in almost every sentence?" Because they can. They're eighteen, one owns his own vehicle, they're legally grown men, Kanda's a very angry person, and Lavi's an American late teenager in the 80s. Of course they'd censor themselves (/sarcasm). And, it's _fanfiction_. Emiggax and I think these questions are quite foolish.


	4. Under Pressure

_FOUR_

January 4th, 1985.

"So, what is the band called?" Allen asked during lunch. "The ad didn't say anything about a name or even a particular genre of music."

"Why didn't you ask that earlier, brat?" Kanda grumbled, looking away from him. "And for god's sake, quit eating like a blar! You're making me wanna puke!"

The white-haired boy paused. "But…I'm not eating like a blar," he replied with a carton of milk in his hand.

Lavi, who sat next to him purely for the food, nodded. "I'm helping him eat," he said. "So it'd be like, I dunno, _we_'re eating like a blar."

"Exactly." Allen finished off his third slice of pizza. Lavi ate half of his fries, and the other two at the table just watched them eat with horror. "What's the genre?" he asked once he dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

Lenalee shook her head. "Oh, right, that." She looked at her band mates. "I guess we could be considered New Wave—"

"Fuck no." Kanda interrupted. "I'm not putting any of that Flock of Seagulls gel shit in my hair."

"Mine neither." Lavi chirped, pulling at a lock of his thick red hair. "I'm sexy all by myself."

"I've put enough stuff in my hair to last me a lifetime, but Kanda can pull of the blitz make-up look perfectly." Allen said, smirking at the glaring Japanese teenager. "Some lipstick here, a dash of blush there…oh yes, I do believe we can make this work."

The Chinese girl reached over the table and flicked Allen on the forehead, patting his hair as he looked up at her with a sad face. "Don't egg Kanda on," she scolded. "You'll get decked. Boys, New Wave isn't just gelled hair or make-up or pretty boys…although if that were the case, we'd be pretty damn rich."

Lavi raised his hand, several fries between his lips. "But you aren't a boy…you're just pretty. You'll kill the entire image."

"Shut up, Lavi. As I was saying, New Wave is so much more than Duran Duran or A Flock of Seagulls… it's the _music_, guys, the _music_."

"You'll still kill the image, Lenalady. We should replace you with a guy…like, I dunno, your brother."

Allen clapped his gloved hand over the older teen's mouth. "Don't blow it over, mate!" he hissed. "Her brother would find out where I _live_…and stalk me for Cross or something. I hate Cross _enough_ without the people who look for him!"

Lavi opened his mouth to lick the boy's hand, but only tasted leather. He pulled Allen's wrist away from his face and gagged. "Why the fuck're you wearing gloves, Brit?" he demanded. "While you eat, too? That's kind of ridiculous, man!"

"Uh—"

"That's what I said." Kanda muttered.

Allen glared at him. "Marijuana keychain, Kanda!" he snapped, catching the attention of several other students with the word 'marijuana'. Kanda glared at them.

"We're in a fucking public school cafeteria!" the black-haired teenager growled. "Quit trying to bring the fucking keychain back up!" People were starting to look at them now. "Is there something on my face?" he snarled at those people, who immediately looked away.

The British teen pointed at Kanda accusingly. "You tell me about the keychain, I'll tell you about the glove!" he said.

Lavi plucked the glove off his right hand, "Yoink."

"Foul play, Lavi." Lenalee said, shaking her head.

Allen gasped. "Hey!" he grabbed at the redhead, trying to reach for his glove. "Give it back!"

The one-eyed teen was confused. "There's nothing wrong with your hand…" he mused aloud, still holding the glove hostage. "It's all normal and pretty and shit. I was expecting alien mutations or some shit like that."

"Well now you know, so give me back my glove!" Allen reached for it with the other gloved hand.

Kanda smirked. "Grab that glove, Cyclops," he said quickly.

Lavi complied, slipping the glove off with a speed no one knew he truly had.

The white-haired boy, stopped reaching for his gloves immediately, choosing to instead sit back in his seat and hide his hands underneath the table.

"Now look at what you've done!" he hissed at Lavi, who was ducking underneath the table. Kanda also looked under the table and Allen threw Lenalee a panicked look, which she responded to with a smile and then looking under the table. "What the hell—"

"Holy shit!" Lavi exclaimed, hitting his head on the underside of the table. "Ow! What the fuck?"

Allen paled. "It's because of an accident, I was eleven and—" he began to babble.

"This is so fucking cool!" the redhead said happily. He and the other two stared at his dark red left hand, which was wrinkled and the nails were an unhealthy black. "Can I touch it? Please?"

"What?" Allen asked stupidly.

"Can I touch it? It looks fuckin' _rad_."

"Uh, sure."

Lavi ran his finger over the hand, still underneath the table. "Damn, it's all soft and shit. Hey, Yuu, touch it!"

"No."

"What about you Lenalee?"

"Sure!" she also went underneath the table, reaching out to touch Allen's hand. "Oh my god, it really _is_ soft! Do you smother it in Johnson's or something?'

Allen opened his mouth to reply, but a most peculiarly pretentious voice cut him off.

"I don't appreciate the way you all are interrupting the other student's lunches." A tall, blond man with an odd bowl-cut and pony-tailed haircut said, blue eyes narrowed. Two dots stood out on his forehead. "Please, get from under the table."

Lavi slipped the gloves back in Allen's hand before he hopped back into his seat, grinning at the man. "Whassup, pimple-face?" he greeted.

The man flushed with emotion. "That's Vice Principal Howard Link to _you_, Lavi. Keep up these disruptions and I'll most definitely be sending a call to your grandfather today," he threatened calmly.

"B-but…it's _Friday_, pimple-face!" whined Lavi. "That's just bogus!"

"Your behavior is what's…_bogus_, young man. Lenalee, you cause disturbances as well, and despite my dislike for your sibling, I'll be forced to call him if you keep this up. Yuu, I've received several reports of threats by you, and do not look at me like that, for I am not the one making threats to teachers. Tiedoll will be hearing of this, Yuu. And, Allen," Link looked at the boy who was adjusting his gloves on his hands. "Come with me, would you?" He turned around and began walking without the young man.

"Oh, of course." The white-haired boy said. He pushed his tray of food towards Lavi who was making faces at Link behind his back. "You can have my food."

"Thanks, Brit." The redhead looked at Allen with a pseudo-sad expression. "Are you gonna abandon us now? Abandon…the _band_?"

"I severely doubt it. Mr. Link is an associate of my uncle's, so perhaps he just wants to discuss something with me concerning Cross."

"Nothing's ever that simple with Mr. Link." Lenalee said in a singing tone.

Allen simply smiled, walking away from the table after the vice principal.

* * *

Things really aren't that simple with Mr. Link.

"Allen, I've been looking after you in this school for quite a while," Link began walking with the boy through the halls of Hampton High School. "I almost think of you as my own son—I'm sorry, hold on—you two! No loitering in the halls during lunch! Now, as I was saying. I'm very fond of you, Allen, very fond."

Allen blinked. "Sir, are you—" He trailed off nervously.

"Coming on to you?" the man finished, smirking. "No. I'm looking out for what is best for you, and I believe that your sudden association with those three isn't what's best. Now tell me—wait, I'm sorry—you, with the cap! No hats during school hours! And take that damned sticker off your locker!" he coughed into his fist. "Now tell me, when _did_ you suddenly associate with those three?"

"A few days ago. It so happens that we have a mutual interest, and they are actually nice people…except for Kanda. He's not very nice at all."

"Yuu will never be very nice. It's his senior year and he's _still_ threatening teachers." Link shuddered. "I'll never understand that boy. Thank god this is my last semester with him. But, Allen, there are so many more people in this school that can have the same interest you share with those three."

"Are the three idiots, as in failing any classes?" the teen asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"Well, no—"

"Then I see honestly see no problem. I appreciate your care and I think of you as the uncle that isn't a twat, but…I'm fifteen, Link. I can handle myself against a few big kids in case push does come to shove."

Allen patted Link on the shoulder he walked past the man back to the cafeteria.

The blond shook his head. "That wasn't the point, Allen." He sighed for the future disturbances in his life.

* * *

"You chose us over your uncle-that-isn't-a-twat?" Lavi asked, eye wide. "What's a twat?"

"A contemptible person. Also known as Kanda and Cross." Allen replied, fiddling with the buttons on his synthesizer. Kanda flipped the middle-finger at him, and returned to strumming some song on his guitar. "So, have you decided what kind of band we are, Lenalee?"

"New Wave." The black-haired girl answered, busy cutting up sheets of paper in the back. "Since you're part of it now with your synth, we can't be just rock or heavy metal. "

"We were never heavy metal." Kanda snapped. "I hate hessians, you can't head bang, and Mugen doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

"Who's Mugen?" Allen asked.

"His guitar." Lavi said. "He loves it more than me, I swear."

"I love my _carpet_ more than you." The long-haired teen muttered.

"Harsh, Yuu. Real harsh."

The gray-eyed boy snickered. "He named his guitar?" he teased lowly. "That's so generic!"

Kanda shrugged. "Don't get all rubbed because I gave my guitar a more original name than your given name," he retorted. "You would've been better named bunk or bean sprout or some shit like that."

"What the blast does a _bean sprout_ have to do with me?!"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Ugh. Get bent!"

"Boys!" Lenalee shouted over their escalating argument. She held up a top hat, grinning. "Since our band is now complete, it is time we choose a band name."

"Ooh, ooh!" Lavi exclaimed happily, waving his drumstick in the air. "Lavi and the Losers!"

"No, dweeb." Kanda replied.

"That's So Lavi?"

"No." Allen said, smiling weakly.

"Lavi in a Box?'

"Hell no!" Lenalee rolled her eyes. "We will be pulling a random name from this _hat_. I have put at least twenty different band names, so don't get heavy if it's bad."

"Do we each choose one separately?" Allen asked, trying to look into the hat.

"Yes, and we will choose the best band dub out of the four." She put the hat on top of Allen's synthesizer. "Everyone get a slip."

The four reached their hands into the small top hat.

"Quit touching my hand, jerk!"

"You quit touching _mine_, dickweed! Your gloves are fucking creepy!"

"Lavi, put those slips back in the damn hat!"

"Come _on_ Lena'! How the hell did you catch me?"

After the brief scuffle, they all held a slip of paper in their hands.

"I got 'Black Boots'." Lenalee said, holding up her paper.

Lavi grinned. "'Extend!' sounds fucking awesome," he said.

"Kogarasumaru…or maybe it just says Kat, I can't tell." Kanda said slowly, squinting. "You write like a five year old smoking a chonger."

"Shut up! Allen, what about you?"

"'Black Order'?" the younger member said. "I think it sounds really good."

"I am now a believer in the British, so I agree with Allen." Lavi said, ruffling Allen's hair.

"That is a good one…" Lenalee mused, smiling. She looked at Kanda, who glared back at her.

"What?" he asked rudely.

"So, what do you think of 'Black Order'?"

Kanda huffed. "Whatever." he grumbled.

"There you have it!" Lenalee said, smiling happily. "We are now 'Black Order'!"

"We should celebrate with your brother's cookies!" Lavi exclaimed, moving towards the door to the house.

"I don't think so, Cyclops." Kanda said.

"Damn it."

* * *

That is what I've been doing this entire time. Every chapter name you see is some random eighties song out of 101 eighties songs in a hat. I close my eyes and pull out one song and BAM there's the chapter title.

If you are having any problems understanding the slang being used in this story, please tell me. I will help you with it, as I've been staring at my eighties terms glossary for hours wondering where the fuck did these words come from. If it helps: Chonger: A fatly rolled marijuana cigarette. Drugs made up three-fourths of the eighties.

And if you haven't figured out the setting, it's in America, in the state Virginia, and in the city Hampton, which is a very nice city to live in, but a great place to visit during the summer season.


	5. Relax

_FIVE_

January 5th, 1985.

"Allen! Alllllen!" Loud knocks were heard from the front door as Lavi banged at the wood with his fist. "Wake up, Brit! C'mon, rise and shine!"

Allen turned over in his comfortable bed, snuggling deeper in his black comforter.

"Wake _up_, man!"

He breathed lightly, white hair spread over the dark, silk pillow.

"Yuu, dirty measures time!"

"I fucking _hate_ your dirty measures, Cyclops."

Lavi huffed. "Who is the older one here?" he demanded.

"I am," Kanda replied in an unimpressed deadpan. "Since my birthday comes first, dickweed."

"So it does…well, since I'm younger, I must live longer." They walked to the backyard, looking up at the two-story triangular house. "We've gotta get to his room, so we can wake him up and play some music."

"No, we can go back to my place and _call_ him—"

"That wouldn't work, Yuu." Lavi held up his arms. "Now put me on your shoulders and lift me up to that window."

"What? No." Kanda sniffed, insulted. "And besides, how do you know that's the kid's room?" To him, all the windows looked the same.

"Goth curtains. Shoulders, man!"

"No." The Japanese teen jabbed a thumb towards the large tree behind them, an empty doghouse underneath it. "Climb that damn tree if you wanna get to the kid's room so badly, but fall off the highest branch instead." Yet the highest branch led right in front of the 'Goth curtains', so either way Lavi kind of won.

"Wait…where's the dog?"

Kanda tensed at the mention of the _dog_, and the two looked around suspiciously. Timcanpy was nowhere to be seen, and his rather large dog bowl was completely empty.

"Maybe the mutt got hit by a car?" the black-haired teen said, cocking an eyebrow in question.

"Dude, not cool." Lavi began climbing the tree. "That dog is fuckin' awesome. You don't understand because of a little bite, dweeb."

Kanda scowled. "Who the fuck are you calling a dweeb?" he snapped, leaning against the tree. "Have you _seen_ that dog's teeth?"

"Just because I have _one_ useable eye doesn't mean I'm blind, Yuu." Lavi chastised, heaving himself up to a thick branch. "Of course I saw the dog's teeth. Oh, shit, I think the window's closed. Throw up some rocks, would ya?"

The long-haired teen smirked. "Sure." He spotted the rock-filled walkway that led to the back door, and picked up a few stones from it. "Here." Kanda threw the rocks at Lavi with less of the intent that the redhead was going for.

"Hey!" the green-eyed teenager cried, narrowly dodging the rocks. "I'm being fuckin' serious here! Just _lightly_ throw me some rocks so I can throw them at his window."

"Crazy fucker." Kanda muttered, throwing a rock up at Lavi, who caught it with a smile.

The redhead threw it at the window, grinning at the loud tap it made. "Hey, Al!" he shouted. "Wake up, Brit!"

Allen blearily opened his eyes, not really acknowledging the taps and shouts as much as the barking coming from Timcanpy, who was jumping at the window, but too small to actually reach it.

"Wha…?" he grumbled, sitting up straight in the bed. "What's going on, Tim?"

"Woof!" Timcanpy barked insistently. "Woof!"

The white-haired boy got out of the bed, stumbling on the metal chains beside his bed and stepping over the several Wiccan religion books all over the ground. He made it to his window, opening the curtains and wincing at the sudden influx of light in his dark room.

"…Lavi?" he groaned, opening one eye.

The redhead waved back at him, on the end of the branch. "Open the window!" he yelled. "This branch can't handle the awesome that is me much longer!" He posed his body to jump the short distance.

Allen opened the window in a panic. "Are you crazy?!" he demanded.

"No way to find out than to try, eh?" Lavi replied with a smile. He jumped off the branch's end and gasped as he grabbed the windowsill, body hanging. "A little help here, Brit?"

"You're an idiot, Lavi." Allen said, grabbing the one-eyed teen's hands and helping him climb inside.

Lavi breathed in relief as his legs reached the windowsill, and he toppled inside the room, screaming and bumping into several hazardous items. Timcanpy yelped as he jumped out the way, hitting a long pole on the edge of Allen's desk.

"Holy shit holy shit—" the redhead repeated, his eye wide as a scythe more fitting with the grim reaper fell towards his face. "I've only got one peeper left, man! Gimme a _break_!"

Allen grabbed the scythe before it touched Lavi's face, chuckling. A single tear fell down the older teen's cheek and he sniffled. Timcanpy licked his face happily. "What the fuck are these things doing in your room anyway?" the redhead asked, getting up off the black-carpeted ground weakly. "I almost skewered myself on your guillotine!"

"You should've knocked on the door then." Allen replied, putting his scythe back in its place next to his desk.

Kanda walked in through the bedroom door. "Hey, hoser, why are you still alive?" he asked incredulously. "There are, like, fifteen sharp weapons by the window itself. I was counting on you dying or getting stabbed."

Lavi huffed. "I just had a near-death experience and you're yelling at me for _not_ dying?" he retorted. "Thanks for the care, burn out."

"How the bloody hell did you get in here?" Allen demanded, looking back at the open window.

The Japanese teen shrugged. "I broke in through the kitchen window," he said unabashedly. "It wasn't locked, so I just went 'whatever' and climbed in."

"I could have you arrested for that!"

"But are you going to have me arrested for that?" Kanda replied.

"Well—"

"Then shut the fuck up." Kanda looked down at Timcanpy, who almost looked like he was smiling at the disgruntled human.

"Woof." The toothy grin widened.

"I don't take that kind of shit from dogs." Kanda warned and walked out of the white-haired boy's room, Lavi stumbling behind him.

Allen followed, feeling a headache slowly coming on even though he just woke up. "Please, tell me you didn't break any dishes?" he begged.

"I didn't break any dishes."

* * *

"He broke Cross's favorite mug." Allen said, sighing. "Oh well, looks like he's less one favorite mug." He finished sweeping up the broken ceramic shards and threw them in the trash, smiling. "I must thank the jerk."

Allen walked into the living room, where Timcanpy sat on the couch next to Kanda, who looked at the dog with extreme caution. Lavi was on the other side of the small dog, flipping the puppy's ears. The yellow dog sidled closer to the Japanese teen, who scooted over a little farther.

"Get this mutt away from me." Kanda commanded, frowning.

The white-haired boy blinked. "Are you…afraid of my dog?" he asked, grinning. "Why, I never expected that to be the case. If anything, I thought dogs would be the least likely thing for you to be scared of."

"I'm not _scared_ of your fucking dog, brat." The older teen grounded out, eyebrow twitching. "I don't want it to bite me. It looks like it wants to bite me."

"Nonsense. Timcanpy would never be so rash as to bite a friend twice, would you Tim?" Allen smiled at the dog, who grinned back at him. "See? He loves you."

"Bullshit."

"Of course." Allen sat in the lounge chair adjacent to the couch. "Here boy," he cooed. "Come here, Tim."

Timcanpy perked up and bounded over to Allen, hopping into the boy's lap and licking his face happily. "Yes, yes, I love you too." Allen said, chuckling.

Lavi sighed. "I wish _I_ had a dog…" he said aloud. "Especially one as awesome as Timcanpy. Fuckin' serial pooch, man…"

The grey-eyed boy laughed, hugging his puppy closer to him. "So…" he began, cocking an eyebrow at the two older teenagers. "Are you two _always_ together?" He made a face. "It seems I can't possibly catch one without the other, even when they break into my house."

"I should've fucking stayed at Lenalee's." Kanda hissed at Lavi, who grinned. "Now he thinks we're fucking fags."

"No, I didn't say _that_. I just said that you two are always together and there is clearly some sort of attachment between you and Lavi."

"See? Gay."

Lavi laughed. "You don't need me to be gay for him to point it out, Yuu," he taunted back. He dodged the punch thrown at his face. "Brit, we've known each other for quite a while, me an' him."

"Him and I." Allen corrected. "But continue. How long?"

"It's was back in '79…" Lavi said, smiling. "We were in middle school, that one down the street, Eaton Middle, actually. Seventh grade, a Friday, and there I was, this good-looking redhead kid with a punkish attitude that had all the coldstone ladies loving me. Hey, quit coughing!" Lavi swiped at Kanda, who dodged it easily. "Like I was saying… I was a kid that you loved to hate, pulled jokes and all that shit.

"So one day, this creepy Asian kid (you know him, he kicks at your dog) saunters in, like 'Where all the pencils at? It's time for an important test' and I was all 'Oh, I gotta extra one right here' and give it to him. I removed all the lead from the pencil previously, and I was planning on doing that kind of prank in the first place so he was the victim. I learned quickly that he didn't take that kind of shit, so he threw the pencil back at my face, which was the kind of shit I didn't take either, and I was all 'hey man, what the fuck?' and he was like 'You want some? Come get some' so we duked it out. I kicked his ass and we've been friends ever since. The end."

Kanda snorted. "Who kicked whose ass?" he asked, disbelieving. "I remember kicking your ass, sure. I think you smoke too much."

"Hey! I totally kicked your Japanese ass to the ground!"

"Then why the fuck were you blabbering about my 'samurinja' shit when we both were in the damn principal's office?"

"The same reason you were growling about my 'GI Joe' shit! I decked you good, man!"

"Bullshit! You couldn't deck a fly if it was already on the ground!"

Lavi stood up, cracking his knuckles. "You wanna replay that fight, man?" he growled.

Kanda stood up as well, and they both came up to about the same height. "Looks like you want a fresh one," he snarled back.

Allen sighed, getting out of his chair. "I'd rather you not fight," he chided. "After all, this is my home. You can duke it out all you want on the other side of my fence, but not while there is furniture that can break around you."

Kanda and Lavi looked at each other, glaring. They both sat back down, eyes looking everywhere but at the other.

"Right." Allen said, rolling his eyes. He put Timcanpy on the ground, huffing. "I'm going to get dressed and then we can go. Don't even dare try and fight while I'm upstairs!"

"Bleh," Lavi muttered. "We ain't gonna try, so don't worry your pretty British head. Go get dressed, we'll behave."

"Thank you, Lavi."

* * *

Lenalee shook her head. "Boys are so damn complicated…" she muttered, sighing. "What the hell is up with those two?" She gestured towards Lavi, who dully tapped at his drums with a sad face, and at Kanda, who had strummed some angry sounding song on his guitar with a face angrier than usual.

Allen chuckled. "They got into an argument about who won some sort of fight back in 1979 in middle school," he replied. He played a few notes on his synthesizer. "Lavi says he kicked Kanda's ass, while Kanda is insisting he decked him."

"Hmm…" Lenalee hummed. She ran to the door to the house. "Komui!" she called. "Can I ask you a question?"

The Chinese man quickly rushed into the garage, his odd beret on his head. "You aren't pregnant, are you?" he demanded. "And, for god's sake, please tell me Lavi isn't the father!"

The redhead hit his head on the cymbal. "I feel so much better now," he mumbled.

"No!" Lenalee hit her brother on the shoulder. "Didn't you used to substitute for the middle school Kanda and Lavi went to?"

"Oh, yes I did." Komui pushed his glasses higher upon the bridge of his nose. "Why do you ask?"

"They're having problems remembering who beat whose ass in the seventh grade, and Allen and I were hoping you might've known."

"Ha!" he laughed. "That fight? I was there, substituting that class actually. I was supposed to give out a test that day, but the two broke out into a fight before anything could happen, so I quickly abandoned the idea and tried to get some help."

"So, who won?" Allen asked, curious.

"By the time I got back to the classroom, they were both knocked out on the floor, so there was no way of telling." Komui shrugged. "Either way, they both got punished for disrupting the class, so there you have it."

"It was a tie, then?" Lenalee asked.

"Sure. Now, I'm sorry, but I've got to get back to work." The man smiled at the band and left the garage.

Kanda huffed. "Sounds like bullshit to me."

"Me too." Lavi agreed. "How do we _not know_ who won a fight in seventh grade?"

"It's like goddamn Scooby Doo."

"Can we possibly stop talking about this and get back to the music?" Lenalee asked, an eyebrow raised.

Lavi stuck out his tongue. "Sure we can!" he replied, grinning. "I don't know about Yuu, but I'm just glad it wasn't my ass that got kicked."

"I know my ass didn't get kicked, so whatever." Kanda began plucking at the C note string. "We're ready whenever you are."

Lenalee looked at Allen, who rolled his eyes. "Well then, let's begin!"

* * *

I only wrote this chapter because I accidentally wrote chapter six in advance, and that wouldn't have fit after four, so I said "Eh, some coverage on Allen's room and a cracked-up flashback on the behalf of Lavi should suffice" and Emiggax was all "BULLSHIT, Timcanpy too" and I was all "Yeah, Timcanpy too." Yes, he is a puppy. Puppies have TEETH FROM HELL. They bite _everything_, I know. I had Snowman (WHO I MISS SO DAMN MUCH. /emo tear).


	6. Straight Up

_SIX_

January 18th, 1985.

"And on January 22nd in 1984, the Apple Macintosh is introduced as the first consumer computer to use a mouse and a GUI interface." A young man with thick sandy hair explained, quickly scribbling verifiable gibberish on the chalkboard. "Of course, with the development of this technology—"

Lavi grinned. "But what's that gotta do with the price of bananas, Johnny?" he interrupted sweetly, a lollipop between his lips.

The majority of the class snickered, and Kanda kicked the back of his seat in irritation.

Johnny Gill blinked from behind his large round glasses. "Well, with the introduction of the GUI interface itself, it's only reasonable that stocks would rise on the topic of Macintosh and—"

"Jesus Johnny, I was being sarcastic!" Lavi muttered.

"I know. That's why I'm humoring you anyway." The classroom door was knocked twice before being opened, and everyone stared at the entering visitor. A white-haired boy walked in, a large stack of books in his arms.

Allen smiled. "Hello, Mr. Gill," he greeted in his clear accent. "I'm on an errand from Mr. Wenhamm."

"Really now?" Johnny asked, turning towards him. "And what did Reever send you here for?"

"He says, and I quote," the boy pulled a false Australian accent that was actually rather spot-on. "'It's Friday and I'm ditching you losers. Got to catch my second job. Here are those books I borrowed back in '73, I just remembered them. The boy has been trained not to pass on any whacks you send my way. So, TTFN Johnny!'" the grey-eyed teen cleared his throat, smiling. "Here are your books!" Allen pushed the stack into the small man's arms.

The sandy-haired teacher grunted at the sudden weight. "Thanks…I guess." He sighed. "You wouldn't punch him in the face if I paid you to, would you?"

"It would have to be a lot of money and a passing grade, so no." Allen waved. "Goodbye, Mr. Gill." He made a move towards the door.

"Baby, come back to me!" Lavi called after him. He winked (or it was implied, as it looked like blinking either way). "Last night you told me you loved me!"

"Bite me, Lavi." Allen replied, amused. "Goodbye." He walked out, closing the door behind him.

Kanda kicked the back of Lavi's chair again. "'Last night you told me you loved me?'" he repeated incredulously. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"I was so close to saying 'you would have really hot sex with me', man." Lavi responded, shaking his head in disappointment. "I censored it for his sake, Yuu. _His_ sake. When have I ever censored a pick-up line, huh? For _his_ sake."

"And I'd pay attention for your sake, Lavi." Johnny said, slightly disturbed. "The entire class doesn't need to know of your odd…romantic hobbies. Now, when did the first robot-related death occur, smart guy?"

"The first robot-related death occurred on July 21st, 1984 in Jackson, Michigan. It was a factory robot that severely injured a worker by crushing him against a safety bar, and is currently the undermining reason for the political reaction concerning robotics and their safety towards the human race." Lavi explained as though he were discussing the weather, biting at his sucker.

The small man opened his mouth, and then closed it, and opened it once more.

"How can I _never_ get you off-guard?"

"Oh, you ain't the only one." The redhead smirked. "Now can we go?"

"What? No! School's not over—" The bell rang shrilly, signaling the end of the school day. "—Damn Sam, how do you do that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, Johnny-boy?" Lavi got out of his seat, stretching.

Kanda rolled his eyes. "I'm going, hoser," he announced gruffly, grabbing his books. He walked swiftly out the classroom, not even stopping to say goodbye to his teacher. Then again, many teenagers didn't say goodbye to their teachers, but it didn't mean he couldn't _try._

"Don't leave me!" the one-eyed teen cried, scrambling after him. "I've got the key to the locker anyway!"

Kanda immediately stopped, making Lavi run into him. "How the fuck did you get my key?" he demanded, disbelieving.

"Don't you mean…_our_ key?"

"No, I mean _my_ key. Give it back, Cyclops!" Kanda snapped, walking out into the hallway, where other students were currently leaving the school, staying for afterschool activities, or simply loitering.

Lavi grinned. "Don't blow a gasket, dude!" he chided. "I'm just—OH MY GOD A FRESHMAN IS CHECKING YOU OUT."

"What the fuck?" the long-haired teen demanded while looking behind him foolishly.

The redhead spied a familiar head of white-hair coming his way. "Hey, Allen!" he called. The fifteen-year-old looked at him. "Catch!" He threw the keys at Allen, who caught them immediately in his gloved hands.

"What the heck is this?" he asked, but glanced at Kanda's face, which was slowly displaying open hostility. "What are you looking at, jerk?"

Kanda dropped his books on the ground and stepped towards him, eyes narrowed.

"What the fuck are you doing, standing there?" Lavi yelled. "He'll fuckin' deck you! RUN!"

And Allen high-tailed it down the hallway, not even knowing _why_ he was running.

"Get back here, brat!" Kanda snapped from behind him.

Lavi chuckled, and then put his hands in his pockets.

"Wait…oh, shit, I threw him the wrong keys." The redhead muttered, pulling a different chain of keys out his pocket. "Ah well, he'll push it over…I think."

* * *

"Gotcha!" Kanda hissed, grabbing Allen's arm roughly in the middle of the parking lot. "Give me the keys, kid."

Allen blinked. "You wanted the bloody_ keys_?" he demanded. "I thought you were after me for existing!"

"There's that too, now give me the damn keys."

"Here!" The British boy practically threw the keys at Kanda, who caught them in a hand. "Don't have an eppy over it!"

"Shut the hell up." The older teen replied, walking past Allen back towards the school.

The grey-eyed boy blinked as he caught the scent of a peculiar smell as the eighteen-year-old walked by. "What _is_ that?" he asked, grabbing Kanda's arm.

The Japanese teenager froze. "Are you touching me?" he demanded.

"What is that smell?" Allen asked, leaning closer to Kanda. "I keep catching whiff of this odd scent, and it _usually_ comes with you."

"Are you saying I _stink_?" Kanda snapped, turning around completely.

"No! It's not a bad smell, but it's not all that good either."

"Woo!" a loud voice called. "Made it just in time! I threw Allen the wrong keys, sorry! But I put your books in the locker already, so you can lay the thanks on me later—" Lavi blinked at the two of them. "Brit, dude, are you _touching_ Yuu?"

"He's also blabbing about how I fuckin' stink, too." Kanda glared. "I don't take that kind of shit."

"You heard the man." Lavi said, smiling. "This situation is harsh, Al. You're about to die, or something like that."

"But I didn't say he stunk!" Allen exclaimed, letting go of Kanda's arm. "I said he had a certain _smell_. There is a difference."

"Really? A smell? Huh." Lavi stepped close to his friend and pressed his face onto his shoulder, inhaling deeply through his nose. He moved away right before Kanda grabbed at him with murderous intent. "Oh, that's just pot."

The gears stopped in Allen's head. "What?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Pot." Lavi said unabashedly. "Weed, grass, mope, joint, dope, Mary, _marijuana_. Whatever you wanna call it, that's what you smell."

"What?"

"You killed the small bit of brain he did have, Cyclops." Kanda said, annoyed. "Get him and put him in the van, we're going to practice."

Lavi swiped a fake salute. "Will do, Yuu!" he crowed happily. He nudged at Allen. "Snap out of it, kid. You're acting like you've never known someone who smoked a joint before."

"I haven't!" Allen replied, annoyed. They began walking down the parking lot towards Kanda's car. "And not only that, but its _Kanda_."

"And I'm Lavi and you're Allen. Nice to meet'cha!" the redhead said sarcastically.

"Dear god, what if his _car_ smokes marijuana too?"

"Now you're just acting paranoid."

* * *

Lenalee laughed. "Of course I knew Kanda smoked weed. And Lavi too," she replied, chuckling at Allen's utterly shocked face. "I know about everything about those two. He and Lavi are my boys. They can hardly take care of themselves, so I'm like the little sister they never had."

"Or wanted!" Lavi called from behind his drum set, where he sat tuning his floor tom.

"Shut it, Red!" She smiled sweetly. "Why do you ask?"

"Have you, I don't know, ever tried to stop him? Them?" Allen asked, irked.

"Of yeah, plenty of times." Lenalee shrugged. "But, you've been part of us for a couple of weeks, so you should know Kanda. If he likes something, then he likes something. Lavi's just, uh, _Lavi_. We're better off leaving it alone. Besides, do they _look_ like they smoke weed?"

They looked at Kanda, who growled at a curling guitar string, muscles tense and face angry like usual, and then they looked at Lavi, who hummed 'Relax' underneath his breath as he tapped the bass drum.

"No. No they don't."

"So pretend that's what going on." Lenalee smiled. Pulling a pamphlet out of her backpack, she waved it about. "Okay boys, I've got some great news for you all."

The other band members perked up. The Chinese girl grinned.

"I got us a show."

"Wha—?" Lavi stuttered, hitting his head on the cymbal. "Ow, shit."

"You're fucking with us." Kanda stated, returning to his guitar.

Lenalee shook her head. "No way, Kanda," she replied, showing him the pamphlet. He took it, opened it, and read over it silently.

"So it's an amateur band show?" he asked, handing her back the pamphlet.

"Well, yeah, despite how I think we could kick amateur ass," Lenalee shrugged. "We have to take what we can get. Besides, not just anyone can get in, you know."

"What'd you do to get us in then?" Lavi asked, walking up. "Flash the owner your boobs or something?"

"I am totally telling Komui what you just said."

"NO! I mean, _no_, 'cause that'll be really unawesome. Like, not the bomb, and shit, and then Komui might kill me or something." Lavi pulled his saddest face. "I'm too sexy to die, Lenalady. My hair is too awesome to get boxed already."

Lenalee elbowed him in the stomach, making him quiet down immediately. "The date of the show is about one week from now, on a Saturday," she explained. "We need to get our songs in order and perfected by that time, and then we need to decide on a scheme of some sort."

"A scheme?" Allen asked, blinking.

"Yeah, a display scheme. We're the Black Order right?" The other members nodded slowly, wondering where she was going with this. "Since we call ourselves the Black Order, then we should wear clothes that are dark, but not _Goth_, because Kanda would probably kill himself."

"Shut the f—" The Japanese teen paused at the glare Lenalee gave him. "—Err, what were you saying?"

"I was saying that we shouldn't walk on stage looking more bogus than a Midwestern cornchip." Lenalee explained. "But, from what I've heard from Lavi about Allen's closet, and by what I've _seen_ in Kanda's closet, I think we're pretty good…except for Lavi."

"Whatchu talkin' 'bout?" the redhead gasped, rubbing his stomach. "What's wrong with my closet?"

"I've seen rainbows with less color." Kanda said blandly.

"And if a black guy walked into your closet, we'd never find him again." Lavi retorted.

Kanda jabbed a thumb towards Allen, who stood behind him, looking at the pamphlet. "No, that's the brat's room."

Allen sniffed. "You're just jealous because my room has more personality than you do," he replied calmly with a wide smile.

"Your room is evil," The Japanese teen countered. "I lose a piece of myself inside every time I look at it."

"Really? That's pretty accurate to the same feeling I get when I look at your _face_."

"Oh shit." Lavi said, grinning. "Brit's about to get his ass kicked."

"Boys!" Lenalee shouted, making the three look at her. She shook her head, sighing. "Looks like we'll have to work on some band dynamics too."

"I know, right?"

"You too, Lavi."

* * *

Now the key chain mystery is revealed. Clearly the two eighteen-year-olds smoke joints, which is a hilarious image in my head as well as a (beep) (beep) in this story.

What's that Emi? You're saying that if they can't handle it then they don't have to read it? Well, I guess you DO have a point, but they're all such nice readers though! Really, I wish I had more words to express my appreciation. How about I tell them to replace the word 'weed' or 'marijuana' or 'pot' or 'joint' or even 'dope' with the word 'CAKE' in their head? It'll be like "He lit the 'CAKE'", you know? Oh, you say that that's lame and they should simply suck it up? …All right, all right, I understand. By the way, I totally love you for introducing that fabulous -man dancing amv in my life, as I simply CANNOT live without it.


	7. Rio

_SEVEN_

January 23rd, 1985.

"I've got a fucking 3.9 average!" Kanda hissed, slamming his AP physics book closed. "I don't need to goddamn study!"

"And I've got a 4.3," Lavi replied in a bored tone, flipping a page in his history textbook. "But you know the rules."

"Except, _I_ don't know these rules…" Allen said, eyeing the large stack of books in front of him on Komui's dining room table. He pulled one off the top. "_Really Hard_ _Advanced Calculus: Fifth Edition_? What the bloody hell is this?"

Lenalee shook her head. "Komui told us that if we want to keep using his electricity and if I want to stay in the band, we must study for two hours every two weeks, even if Lavi is ridiculously smart with the best memory ever, Kanda hates the letters B as well as C, D, and especially F, and I'm really smart all by myself. Maybe _you_ might need to study—Wait, what are you doing?"

"Page thirty-nine of Really Hard Advanced Calculus." Allen answered easily. "Okay, done."

Lavi looked at the paper. "Aren't you, like, a sophomore?" he asked, disbelieving. "You shouldn't have known the answer!"

"It's '3', isn't it?"

"Well, _doy_, but still—"

"Then I don't see a problem." The white-haired boy yawned. "Can we do something that is _not_ a load of bollocks now?"

Kanda glared. "No, because you haven't done question number eight yet," he said, pointing at said question.

Allen huffed, leaning over and answering it. "Done."

"This one too."

"Done."

"You missed a step here."

"Why are you being a _jerk_?!" Allen demanded. "If it annoys you so much, why don't _you_ do a few questions?"

The Japanese teenager growled and got out his seat. Pulling Lavi's chair back roughly, earning a yelp from the one-eyed teen, he pushed his seat next to Allen, who looked at him with a challenge.

"Try me." Kanda snarled, pencil poised over the paper.

"I bet you can't do _that_ one."

"Ha, done." The older teen smirked, leaning back.

Allen clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth in disapproval. "What about that one?"

"Done."

"You _missed a step here_."

"Oh my god." Lavi whispered, watching the college-ruled notebook paper quickly be filled with equations that the average teenager would have lots of problems with. "He's almost as smart as I am."

Lenalee silently slipped her homework underneath Kanda's pencil as he glared at the younger boy next to him. "Oh no!" she exclaimed falsely. "You guys totally forgot the assignment in front of you! But it's _so hard_ you two probably can't do it—"

Allen pushed Kanda out the way, pencil quickly scribbling in the answers. "Ha!" he crowed.

Kanda roughly shouldered him back, penciling in the rest. "Fuck you, kid!" he growled.

They both grabbed the paper and thrust it towards Lenalee, as if asking her to check it. She took the sheet, grinning.

"Oh yeah," she said happily. "It's all correct."

"I bet he missed the Booleans part!" Kanda stated, grabbing another book from the top of the pile.

"No, YOU missed the step with the Church numerals!" Allen retorted, taking Lavi's advanced history book.

"The hell I did! Admit you're an idiot!"

"An idiot who's smarter than _you_ are, at least!"

The Chinese girl wrote her name at the top of the paper. "I love stupid boys…" she said wistfully.

Lavi laughed. "Then I must be out your criteria."

Komui walked through the dining room to get to the kitchen, but he paused at the large pile of papers on his dining room table and stared at the arguing Kanda and Allen, the smug Lenalee, and the utterly bored Lavi.

"I find this to be really suspicious," he announced.

"Shut up!" the bickering two snapped and returned to their education competition.

Lenalee smiled. "There is nothing wrong, wonderful brother of mine," she said sweetly. "In fact, I think Kanda and Allen are doing enough studying to last us six weeks. I even finished my bulk hard homework. It was _mega_ difficult."

"Nice try, darling little sister of mine." Komui smirked, plucking the assignment out of her hand. "But next time, don't have three different John Hancock's on the paper."

"He got you there." Lavi muttered.

"Rewrite the paper in your own handwriting." Komui instructed, giving the paper back to Lenalee. "And, for god's sake, tell Kanda to stop carving the history of Napoleon into my table. He's got the grip of God, I swear." The Chinese man continued on to the kitchen to retrieve himself some coffee.

"Hey Yuu, you heard the man." Lavi called, shaking his head. "He says stop carving Napoleon's history into his table!"

"I'm not!" Kanda snarled back. "I'm carving the chemical formula of ammonia!"

"And I'm doing the history of the French revolution!" Allen said, pushing Kanda's face away so he could write over the older teenager's handwriting.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"Then don't stand so close to me!"

"Ah, the Police…" The redhead mused with a smile. "They're so passionate they manage to add music in their arguments too."

* * *

January 25th, 1985.

"I hate going shopping." Lavi muttered. "You guys never let me pick my own clothes."

"We let you pick your own clothes all the time." Lenalee said, pulling him into the clothing shop, Kanda and Allen following at a safe distance away from each other. "But this is for _our_ show, and your normal flamer style isn't going to get us much of anywhere, Lavi. Sorry."

"Fuck this shit!" the redhead cried, pulling away from Lenalee and trying to run out the store, only to crash into his self-proclaimed best friend. "Ow, shit, damn it."

Kanda rolled his eyes. "Lenalee, do I let him go?" he asked grumpily.

"No…just give him back to me." The Chinese girl grabbed Lavi by the scruff of his neck, despite how he was taller and stronger than her. "We will choose a good outfit for him, even if we severely injure him."

"Oh my fucking god I hate you guys—" Lavi whined as Lenalee led him to the men's clothing section with all the darker shades.

Allen looked around the shop, marveling at the simplicity it promoted, and idly walked around.

"May I help you?" a dark, deep voice asked from behind the grey-eyed boy. Allen sighed, turning around to properly reply to the source of the voice.

"No, I'm o…kay…"

The man behind him was very tall, very pale, and very smiling with very sharp canines. He looked down at the significantly smaller male and ran his hands over the stark white cowlick among his black hair.

"Are you with Lenalee and company?" he asked, amused. "The newest member of their ace band, right?"

Allen nodded dumbly. "Err, yes I am." He smiled back shakily, holding out his hand. "I'm Allen Walker."

"Ha ha." The man laughed, shaking Allen's hand. "I'm Arystar Krory. It's wonderful to meet you." His voice held the slightest hint of an accent.

"Are you from…Romania?" Allen asked, not exactly sure.

Krory looked surprised. "My grandfather's Transylvanian," he answered. "I was born in Philadelphia, but I lived in Transylvania…right until my grandfather died. So, I ended up here, in Virginia." The tall man walked ahead, checking the price tags on a pair of ripped jeans. "So damn expensive…" he muttered, even though he probably set the prices. He looked over at Allen, smiling weakly. "You can still talk; I'm just making sure these things are in order. You're British, right?"

"Yes, I am." The white-haired boy replied. "It's pretty obvious."

"That it is," Krory said with a smile. "But which _part_ of Great Britain is the question… I'm going to guess… Eastern London?"

"Correct." Allen said, grinning. "You must've been to a lot of places."

"Well, I did do a little traveling back in my day…" Krory trailed off as he looked behind Allen, eyes wide. "Oh _shit_."

"Is that how every adult talks?"

"Uh, err," the two-toned haired man rushed into the dressing room stall. "Don't tell anyone I'm here!" he hissed through the curtain to Allen.

The fifteen-year-old, in all of his confusion, turned around to see whatever it was that frightened the pale man so much.

A blonde woman had stepped into the clothing store, dressed provocatively in a tight white blouse. Her legs donned dark leggings underneath her tight leather skirt, and she wore black high-heeled shoes. Her many golden bracelets jingled as she walked towards Allen, face annoyed.

"Hey, kid," she said. "Where's the shop guy?"

"I'm sorry ma'am," Allen said. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She rolled her eyes, red lips in a thin line. "He's two times your height, weird New Wave hair, sharp teeth, total batcaver, and a big pussy."

There was a thump from the dressing stall.

Allen chuckled nervously. "No, I don't think I've seen this person before. Perhaps you should try again another day?" he suggested.

"Nah, I'll find him." The woman said, nodding in agreement with herself. She opened her blue eyes, actually looking at Allen. "By the way, you're actually pretty cute."

"Ma'am?"

"Really, you could be a fine man when you grow up a few inches." The woman smiled, pinching Allen's cheeks. "Even that tattoo of yours is cute. Here, take my number." She pulled out an ink pen from her purse and grabbed Allen's right hand and rolled up the sleeve on the arm, writing a series of numbers on the pale skin.

Allen was kind of shocked. "Ma'am…" he said slowly. "I'm fifteen."

"Get real!" The woman exclaimed. "I thought you were twelve. Oh well, better for me then."

"Ma'am!"

"Stop calling me that. The name's _Eliade_." Eliade chuckled, ruffling Allen's white hair. "Seriously though, call me. I have a feeling I might like you, even if you are under my required 'You must be this tall to ride' rule."

"Thank you?" Allen replied, honestly scared.

"No problem. And tell the shop guy…" she raised her voice. "…that I need to know where I can find I great pair of tight stonewashed jeans!"

"Of course, Eliade."

The blonde woman chuckled. "See ya, cutie." She walked out the store; her hips swaying in a way that almost made Allen want to blush, if he weren't completely mortified.

"I'm so sorry I had to put you through that." Krory said as soon as he stepped out the dressing booth. "It's just, well, I can't explain it…"

"You have a crush on her." Allen deadpanned.

"Wha—?!" Krory yelped, blushing. "N-no, I, I don't!"

"Of course." The pale boy smirked. "That why I have her number." He held up his hand.

"Gimme!" the tall man hissed, but then paused. "I mean, no, I don't want it."

"Sure you don't."

"Hey!" Kanda called. "Brat! Get over here!"

Allen rolled his eyes. "Why?" he yelled back, having too much fun teasing Krory.

"They need your help on choosing a damn outfit!" the Japanese teen snapped. "Now get your British ass over here!"

"Must he always go so far?" the youngest band member mused, walking away. He waved at the tall, blushing man. "Bye Krory!" he exclaimed.

"Bye Allen!"

When the boy arrived to the area with the rest of the band members, the first thing he noticed was Lavi's tear-streaked face, even around his eye patch.

"Allen!" the redhead cried, immediately latching onto the boy. "Please tell me I look sexy! I don't feel like shopping anymore!"

"Lavi…you're half-naked." He wore nothing but a pair of stonewashed ripped jeans that were tight enough for leather.

"So? Does that make me any less sexy?" Lavi sniffled. "Bogus, man. Bogus. By the way, who was the hot chick you were yappin' it up with? I saw some hand holding." Red eyebrows waggled.

"Don't tell me you're already someone's boy toy!" Lenalee chided, pulling out an Ocean Pacific black shirt. "She looked like she was twice your age!"

"It's okay." Allen said. "I don't fit her criteria."

"What?" Lavi demanded. "How? You're cute, you're British, and you're perfect to me! Her standards can't be too far off."

"I'm…too short."

Kanda immediately began coughing. He leaned over on the clothing rack and just coughed and wheezed and it didn't look too healthy.

"I hope he really is dying this time." Allen said darkly.

"Oh, don't wish such a thing. He can't help it." Lenalee said, kicking Lavi in the knees to make him fall on the ground. "He doesn't laugh too often, you know. We should cherish these little moments. Stop moving, Skippy!"

"Damn it, Joanie!" Lavi wailed, trying to not wear the shirt Lenalee was forcing on him.

She kicked him again.

Kanda kept coughing, but it had subsided greatly.

Allen rolled his eyes, leaning against the clothing rack next to Kanda.

"Sorry kid," Kanda said, smirking. "You gotta be this tall to stand next to me."

"Get bent, geek."

* * *

Ah, KroryxEliade…no one ever writes it. D: Eliade will be back MUCH LATER in the story btw

And, Midnight Chime? Emiggax says that you are so damn awesome, and I wholeheartedly agree. You know what you did.

Now...I'm going to go find some more 80s songs. It's time for more Lenalee-singage next chapter.

And thanks Yamamoto Kou for the pointing out of the typos. It has been fixed!


	8. Call Me

_EIGHT_

January 26th, 1985.

"So… is this the place?" Allen asked, jumping out the back of the van. "Black…Out?"

Kanda rolled his eyes, getting out the driver's seat. "Don't ask stupid questions, dickweed," he replied in his infamous irritated tone. "I wouldn't be parking in front of the damn building if we weren't going inside."

Allen flushed, scowling. "I never asked for your input, _prick_."

"Well, you were practically begging for it, by opening your goddamn mouth." He paused. "Wait, _eww_."

Lenalee hit Kanda on the head lightly. "Honestly Kanda, sometimes you just need to shut your mouth too," she chastised. "You can say some dumb stuff, dude. Besides, I'm amped for this show, and I really don't want you and Allen to break out into an actual fist fight on stage."

"It's still his fault," Kanda grumbled, rubbing his head. He looked around, suspicious. "Where's Cyclops?"

"I'm here!" Lavi exclaimed, hopping out the back with Mugen in his hands. "I'm sure you don't want to use whatever generic guitar they've got ready for you in the club, right?"

The black-haired man took the guitar and swung the strap over his shoulder. Lavi grinned; his drumsticks sticking out the back pockets of his ripped stonewashed blue jeans.

The Chinese girl smiled. "Are we ready?" she asked. "No one feels like bunking out yet?"

"The brat—"

"Shut up, prick!"

"Then I think we'll be just fine." Lenalee said, pushing the two towards the door, Lavi following. They entered the club, gaining some _really_ suspicious looks from the weighty bouncer. The club was bright with lights and life, with people crowding the bar and the dance floor, and a band was already on the middle stage, with the music pumping.

"Ha!" Lavi cried, holding his arms out wide. "I love the nightlife!"

Allen stayed close to Lenalee. "I've never been in a nightclub before…" he said weakly, flinching at a wayward dancer.

"Oh, that's right." The redhead shouldered Allen, smiling. "You're British. You guys have _acid clubs_ or whatever they call that shit in the UK."

"Actually, I was talking moreover about the fact that I'm _fifteen_." Allen replied with a pronounced eyeroll.

"Huh, you _are_ fifteen, aren't you?" Lavi mused aloud. "I keep thinking you're twelve."

"Are you bloody_ serious_?"

The older teen laughed. "Just kidding!" he said, cuffing Allen's left arm playfully.

A tall, bulky man donning large headphones spied the group, and he trotted up to the band excitedly. "Are you…the Black Order?" the man asked, looking at the clipboard in his hands.

Lenalee nodded, smiling. "That's us! Are you are…?" she trailed off invitingly.

Kanda groaned. "Goddamn _fucking_ Marie, I should've known this was your doing," he grumbled spitefully.

The man laughed, delighted. "It's great to see you again too, Kanda," he said amiably. "Especially since you don't call Dad or anyone else." He looked at the group, his brows raised in question. "You finally joined a band, huh? Nice. Oh, hey Lavi."

"What's _up_ dawg?" Lavi replied, and they shared a fairly masculine fist bump in greeting.

Lenalee was fairly confused, but not nearly as much as Allen. "And you are...?" she repeated, smiling nervously.

"Oh, damn, I'm mad sorry. I'm Noise Marie. I own the club," Marie smiled, tapping his headphones. "I've got a good ear for the rhythm. To me, you three seem like you might know some music, unlike most of the bands that've played all night." He chuckled. "I also know Kanda quite personally, y'know? But yeah."

"Three?" the Chinese girl repeated, caught on that part of his statement. "There are four people in this band."

"Really now?" the large man looked around. "Where's the fourth member?"

Kanda turned around. "Ah shit," he cursed. He waved a hand at the poor white-haired boy that was being carted off by the bouncer. "The brat's being manhandled by security." He prepared to remove his guitar. "Give me a few moments and I'll fuck them up."

The bald man blinked. "That little kid is part of the band?" he asked incredulously.

"He plays synth." Lavi explained. "We're so loving that we don't let the age difference bother us…even if he's a little too young to be in a nightclub. Yuu, fucking up time GO!"

"No!" Marie exclaimed, his hand out. "I'll handle it! You three just _stand_ here! Especially _you_, Kanda!"

The club owner hurried to the bodyguard, who held Allen up to the point where his feet didn't even touch the ground. "You're part of the Black Order, right?" he asked immediately.

The pale boy looked at him, annoyed. "And Bob's your uncle," he grumbled.

Marie laughed. "Sorry about that. Chaoji, you can let him go."

Chaoji, the bouncer, immediately dropped Allen on the ground, making the boy land roughly on his bottom.

"Thanks, I suppose…" Allen said, standing up shakily.

Marie grinned. "Let's go. The current band should be ending soon." He patted the boy on the shoulder, making Allen stumble forward roughly. Lavi grinned at him once they got back, swinging an arm around the younger teen's shoulder.

"Don't pull stunts like that…" he cooed. "You even got poor Yuu over here worrying over you. He was ready to kick ass all for your cause!"

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda said, glaring. "I don't remember any shit like that."

"See? His care is _legit_!"

Marie's headphones slid down the sides of his head. "Sounds like the band playing is about to bounce," he told the group. He smiled, moving the headphones back up. "Get ready to get onstage, and rock it."

Lavi let out a whoop, pumping his fist in the air.

"But, the kid has to be watched if you're going to stay afterward."

"What?" Allen demanded. "Why?"

"Yeah, why?" Kanda asked, annoyed. "It's not like he's gonna start a fuckin' mosh pit or anything."

The large man shrugged. "I guess you guys want him to get picked by the bouncer again, right?"

The Japanese teen scoffed. "I honestly don't give a damn."

"Yeah right." Lavi muttered. "Mr. I'll-Fuck-Them-Up-in-A-Moment."

"I don't remember saying any shit like that." Kanda replied, crossing his arms defiantly.

The band onstage faded out, and scattered applause sounded from around the club. Marie grinned. "That's your cue, Black Order," he said, jabbing a thumb towards the emptying stage. "You'll find instruments already up there. A lot of bands don't have the cash for their own beats, so I like to be nice and have the rhythm ready for them."

Kanda walked by, sneering. "I don't need your piece of shit guitar," he grumbled. Marie laughed, delighted.

Lenalee chuckled, walking after the older teen. Lavi held out his arm to Allen, waggling his eyebrows.

"Ready to jam, Brit?" he asked with a grin.

Allen rolled his eyes, smiling. "Of course, Lavi," he replied, walking past the older boy.

The group of four got onto the stage, catching the attention of the people around the club.

Lenalee grabbed the microphone. "_Testing, one two and three,_" she spoke. Satisfied, she held up a clenched fist, grinning. "Hey everybody! How are you tonight?"

There were murmurs among the people in the club, and the girl laughed. "I'm gonna take that as 'ace'," she said. "We're the Black Order, and we'll be playing a few songs for you tonight!" Lenalee pointed at each band member respectively. "That's Allen, that's Lavi, and this Grinch next to me is Kanda."

"Why don't we get your last names?" a voice asked from the crowd on the dance floor.

The Chinese singer snickered, microphone still to her lips. She jabbed a thumb towards Kanda. "You just got his last name. If you want his first, then that's a personal problem," she said. Kanda bared his teeth at the crowd and faked a growl.

Light laughter sounded, along with a few wolf-whistles. "But, he's a coldstone fox!" another person called. "I think we deserve to at least know his real name!"

"For real, now?" Lenalee asked, smirking. "Well, he'll tell you what he thinks of that. So Kanda, what're gonna do if they bother you for your real name?" She held the mic towards the tall Japanese teenager.

Kanda looked annoyed. "I'll fuck you up," he grumbled irritably into the microphone. "I'm serious."

The audience laughed, and several whoops and cheers were let out. "You can fuck me any day, Diesel!" someone yelled, rising more laughs and cheers.

Allen flushed red all the way to the tips of his ears, covering his face with his gloved hands in embarrassment. Lavi whistled in amusement and made a sort of "ba-dum-chink" beat on the trap set.

Lenalee grinned at Kanda, who growled lowly in his throat. "Enough of that, let's get started." She grabbed the microphone stand. "Do you think you can handle us?"

The cheers were loud. Lavi immediately began tapping the bass drum with his foot, and Kanda huffed, fingers strumming the guitar strings carefully. Lenalee nodded at Allen, who grinned back at her with a thumb up. The synthesizer slowly sounded, and the singer swayed to the beat.

"_Tongue-tied…_" Lenalee sang into the microphone. "_I'm short of breath…don't even try  
Try a little harder… Something wrong, you're not naïve, you must be strong  
Oh, baby try…_" The synthesizer pumped louder. "_Hey boy, come a little closer…Oh, you're  
Too shy shy, hush hush, eye to eye  
Too…shy shy…hush hush—eye to eye  
Too shy shy, hush hush, eye to eye  
Too…shy shy, hush hush…" _

Marie smiled from his spot at the bar. The bartender slid a drink towards him, which he took with a thank you.

"You have a great taste for music, Noise." The light-haired bartender said, grinning. "I'd never guess those four could be that okay, especially the little one."

The club owner laughed. "Best thing is that they've got the potential to be so much more. They synchronize like something fierce."

"_Modern medicine falls short of your complaints…_" the sixteen-year-old continued with a smile. "_Ooh, try a little harder…  
I'm moving in circles, won't you dilate? Baby, try…  
Hey boy, come a little closer…'Cause you're  
Too shy shy, hush hush, eye to eye  
Too shy shy…hush hush—eye to eye  
Too shy shy, hush hush, eye to eye__  
Too shy shy, hush hush…_" The music faded out, with Lenalee holding a single note for a few more seconds.

The crowd roared about the club, cheers and whoops calling out from every corner.

Allen blushed, smiling at the many people that cheered for their song. "What does this mean as our first show?" he asked the older redhead.

Lavi grinned. "I'd say it means we were pretty damn successful!" he replied happily. He tapped the right tom steadily. "C'mon guys, we still have a couple songs left!"

"Cyclops's gotta point." Kanda said, huffing. He tapped his foot against the ground impatiently. "Got to rock first, and cheer later."

Lenalee laughed, eyes crinkling. "Well people, you heard the man!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "We've still got two more songs left for you all!"

"Rock it, baby!" Lavi crowed.

* * *

"I vote Kanda to watch Allen."

"Me too." Lavi agreed. "I wanna watch all the other bands blow."

Kanda stared, incredulity clear in his eyes. "You want me to do _what_?" he demanded.

Lenalee patted him on the back. "It won't be that bad…" she assured. "I mean, Allen's really mature for his age…he'd almost be more mature than you if you two didn't bicker like a pair of fags. Besides, Lavi isn't very responsible, and you know this."

"So? This can be, I don't know, some sort of 'responsibility' trial." Kanda huffed. "I don't want to do this. I refuse to do this."

Lavi smirked. "You could use this chance to show off how you can drink alcohol and he can't. He gets annoyed pretty easily from the shit you do."

Kanda looked interested at the prospect of annoying Allen. "Hey, kid, where the fuck are you?" he called loudly. Allen walked up, face twisted in annoyance, as the other two walked away in conversation.

"What?" he asked, a white eyebrow raised. "Are you drunk, Kanda?"

"No, I'm not." The older teenager replied easily. "I'm just the unlucky bunk that's stuck with babysitting you. Now sit down right here." He pointed at the bar chair next to him.

Allen felt his lip curl in a sneer, but held back as he felt he was more polite and mature than that. "Why _you_, of all people?" he asked in an disturbed tone, sitting in the chair.

"I don't know." Kanda said, leaning his black-clad torso on the bar. "Could I get a freddy?" he asked the bartender, who smiled at the distressed look on Allen's face. "What, did you want one?" the Japanese teen questioned, smirking.

The white-haired boy rolled his eyes. "I can't _have_ one, prick," he grumbled, arms crossed.

"Too bad…" Kanda said with a jeer, sipping at his beer.

The bartender coughed behind a fist in amusement. "So… what about the cutie right here?" he asked.

Kanda shrugged. "He'll have milk."

"Milk?!" Allen demanded. "I'm fifteen! Not _five_!"

"You can't drink alcohol, so why should it matter?"

The younger teen looked at him in disbelief for a while.

The bartender passed him his milk. "Here you go, kid. It's on the house!" he said exuberantly.

Allen smiled politely. "Thank you…?" he trailed off invitingly.

The bartender laughed. "Oh, I'm Edward." Edward's eyes looked almost slanted in the dim light behind the bar. "Maybe you should take a sip of your milk, kiddo."

The boy blinked and looked down at his cup of white milk. It _looked_ innocent enough, but there was something about the way Jerry said it.

He sipped the milk.

And then he gagged. "This isn't two percent fat free, is it?" he asked, annoyed.

Edward simply made an over-exaggerated shrug. "I might've added a bit of vodka in it…on _accident_," he whispered conspiratorially with a smile.

Allen looked at Kanda, who glared at a chattering girl that sat next to him, and he looked back down at his glass of alcoholic milk.

"Thank you _so_ much…" he said to the dark-skinned man with a smile.

Edward laughed. "No problem at all, kid. Your Jap friend over there needs to get loose or something."

"Most definitely."

Kanda looked over at him. "Most definitely _what_?" he growled. He spied the glass of milk in Allen's gloved hands. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded, snatching the cup away. "I wasn't serious!"

Allen shrugged. "Well the bartender here was kind enough to make it for me on the house," he replied, smirking. "Maybe you should be nicer."

"Fuck being 'nicer'." Kanda grumbled. He sniffed the milk. "This smells like…smells like…" he muttered, eyebrow furrowing in thought.

"Smells like _what_, Kanda?"

"Smells like skim milk." The guitar player gave the boy back his cup. "Have fun with that shit, kid."

Allen smiled evilly. "Oh, I _will_."

* * *

January 27th, 1985

"Why the hell did you give him alcohol, Kanda?" Lenalee demanded, Allen leaning heavily on her shoulder, muttering various terms underneath his breath. "It's midnight and he's tipsy like a druggie. Are either of you jerks responsible?!"

"How the fuck was I supposed to know he was sneaking alcohol into his milk?" Kanda growled back, Mugen on his shoulder. "And no, I'm obviously not responsible, so don't put me on babysitting duty anymore."

Lavi sighed. "What kind of adult gives alcohol to a kid?" he asked, opening the van door. "Gimme Mugen so I can throw it in." He yawned, covering his mouth.

"Are you the…Black Order?"

Everyone paused in their motions to look towards the voice, and a tall, pale, dark-haired woman stepped towards them slowly, dressed in all dark colors. "I'm Miranda Lotto…" she greeted nervously, stopping in front of Lavi. "I saw your show."

The redhead grinned. "We fucking _rocked_!" he exclaimed, raising his hand excitedly. "High-five!"

Miranda scurried back, arms immediately coming over her face in protection. "Please don't hit me!" she wailed. "Even if I do deserve it, I'd appreciate it if it didn't have to happen _now_…! Wait until tomorrow to beat me up, please!"

Lavi lowered his hand slowly. "Okay…no high-five then," he said carefully, an eyebrow cocked.

The pale woman stepped closer, coughing into her hand. "My apologies…" she said shakily. "I get nervous a lot."

"We noticed." Kanda said blandly.

"Of course." Miranda made a small smile. "I was wondering… Would you all be interested in another show?"

Lenalee almost dropped Allen on the ground right there. "Are you serious?" she asked, incredulous.

"Err, yes." The woman coughed into her fist. "I co-own a club, a nightclub of sorts, and you are a very good band, if I say so myself."

"Get to the point, Joanie." Kanda said.

"Shut it, jerk!" Lenalee hissed, bopping him on the arm roughly. She smiled at Miranda. "What day would the show be on? We're still high school students over here."

"I guessed that much." Miranda fiddled with the ends of her wavy hair, frowning. "It'd be on a Sunday… the Sunday next week. You'd be opening…for a band."

"Opening?" Allen repeated, his accent thick and somewhat slurred due to the alcohol. "We're much too good for an…opening…" He yawned.

"I agree with the drunk kid." Lavi said.

"But, it's not just a band!" Miranda insisted.

Kanda glared. "Then what the hell is it?" he asked, slowly getting aggravated.

Miranda looked away from the angry man. "You'd be opening for Noah's Ark."

* * *

This took too damn long.

I'm at Emiggax's house, and I've discovered that I suck at Pokemon Coliseum while she discovered that Mukuro deserves all the hate he gets from her. Reborn! fuxxen pwns.

Yikes, more eighties terms from HELL. Do not fear me, please tell me what you don't understand.

LOL this story is going to have so many damn chapters.

Song used and tweaked was "Too Shy" by Kajagoogoo. The band's name is so silly, but the song is awesome.

Now, I know drinking isn't allowed in the US until you're 21, but I'm bending a few rules. (Oh, wait, several people have helped me out a lot by telling me that drinking at 18 WAS allowed in certain states back then. Let's just say Virginia is one of them.)

And the name "BlackOut" goes to Ravenna-Song, as I feel better and decided some subtle pimping was in order. But, I'm not completely happy, but I'm happy enough to let bygones be bygones.


	9. West End Girls

_NINE_

February 1st, 1985.

"Allen! Have you seen Miss Miranda's card?" Lenalee asked from inside the house, bumping into Lavi and making the older teen's sodas fall on the ground. "Sorry Red!" Lavi grumbled some unintelligible curse back.

Allen paused, stifling a smile. "I saw it yesterday!" he replied. "It was on your kitchen counter, or a likely place. Ask Kanda!"

"Where is he?"

"Sleeping like the lazy menace to society he is. Hopefully he doesn't wake up." A pencil hit him on the forehead. "He's napping on the couch down here." Allen corrected, pouting. The older girl smiled and patted him on the head as she trotted by. She stopped in front of the lounging long-haired man that slept soundly on the couch.

Lenalee tugged on a lock of Kanda's hair. The grumpy eighteen-year-old opened one eye blearily, lips pressed in a frown.

"What?" he grumbled.

"Have you seen Miss Miranda's card? We need to drop a line about Sunday!" She put her hands on her hips in emphasis.

Kanda yawned, covering his mouth loosely. "I ate it," he replied gruffly. "I haven't slept all night 'n day, so gimme a break."

"You _ate_ the card?"

"Part of it." He yawned again. "It was on accident, lemme 'lone. I'm tired." The guitar player closed his eyes and his breathing evened out.

Lenalee stared. "He _ate_ the business card? On accident?" she repeated incredulously. Then she turned to Allen, who was trying and failing to hide his snickers behind a gloved hand. "You had something to do with this, didn't you?"

Allen coughed and tried for an innocent look. "Why of _course_ not." He flashed a smile. "After all, that would be quite bogus for even _me_ and what would I get out of making a half-asleep and therefore delirious Kanda think he was eating a cracker when he was _really_ eating Miss Lotto's business card?"

Lavi whistled as he stepped into the garage. "I knew I loved the British for a reason!" he said, patting Allen roughly on the back. "Fuckin' A, man, I wish I was there to've seen Yuu's face when he started chewing that card."

"You all do realize that we _needed_ that card, right?" the singer asked slowly.

"Oh, but of course." Allen handed her the remains of the business card. "The number is still there and perfectly legible. He only ate the logo, which makes it all the better."

"Allen…" Lenalee began slowly. "You are the cutest bastard I have ever known. Even more than Kanda, who has that totally hot bod'."

"I know, right?" Lavi agreed. Allen looked at him, blinking. The redhead stuck out his tongue. "I've known the guy for a dick year, Al. I got the right to talk about his body, and it _is_ hot."

"Why are we even on this _subject_?" Allen demanded. "Aren't we going to call Miss Lotto?"

Lenalee snapped her fingers. "Right!" she exclaimed. "Let's go! Wake up Kanda if you can, okay Allen? Red, you're with me. Meet up with us in the living room, all right?"

"Why must _I_ wake up the prick?"

"Great question." Lenalee trotted back into the house, Lavi on her heels. Allen groaned and turned to Kanda, who still slept on the uncomfortable couch.

He reached out to touch the older teen's shoulder. "Kanda…" he called lightly. "Wake up…"

A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Shut the fuck up." Kanda snarled, roughly pulling Allen down. He got in the younger boy's face, glaring angrily. "I heard every fuckin' word, you little brat. Next time you try and pull some shit like that, I won't be nice. Got that?" He jerked Allen's wrist, making the boy wince.

"Sure." Allen answered sarcastically. "Because you actually scare me." He made a face. "The scariest thing about you so far just might be your breath. You may want to do something about that."

"Keep that up, kid, and I'll _give_ you something to really shit your pants over." The Japanese man let go of Allen's wrist and stood up, making sure to shoulder the white-haired boy roughly in his path. He walked slowly to the door that led inside the house, Allen following with a scowl.

Lenalee was already on the phone by the time they arrived, Lavi leaning towards the mouthpiece eagerly.

"Yes…" she spoke into the phone, tone excited. "Yeah! Sure, Miss Miranda. Of course we will!" The girl motioned for them to sit down on the couch, which they did as far away from each other as possible. "Uhm… Well, I guess. We're pretty open."

Kanda blinked, frowning. "What the fuck is the woman talkin' about?" he whispered, an eyebrow cocked.

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Geez," she chided. "Let me finish talking _first_, then we'll all get the 411. Can you handle that?" She returned to the phone. "Yes, I'm still here."

The Japanese teenager huffed and leaned back on the couch, arms crossed. He threw a glare at the smirking Allen, who just smiled back.

"Right… Yeah. Okay, thanks bunches Miss Miranda!" Lenalee put the phone back on the hook. Lavi stared at her with his one green eye.

"So?" he asked with a grin. "What's up?"

"Okay, first off, we're still opening for Noah's Ark," Lenalee explained. "But, in a month. It seems that they're actually a popular band even if all I know about them is that they have a really hot lead singer."

"That's all I knew too." Lavi muttered, shaking his head.

"Me too." Kanda grumbled. "After that, I know jack shit about Noah's Ark."

"So, I guess I'm the only one that didn't know anything about Noah's Ark? Not even about the really hot lead singer?" Allen asked, feeling rather left out.

"I guess." Lenalee said with a shrug. "All right, back to business. Miss Miranda says she's sorry about the misconception, but we can still come to the club, called _Time_ by the way, if we want on Sunday. She said that the other owner is interested in us, so I agreed to us coming. Come on, it'll be a great opportunity!"

"I didn't say shit." Lavi replied, holding up his hands in a show of submission.

"Not _you_. Kanda's giving me this look, it's all," she lowered her voice as deeply as possible, "'I don't fucking agree with this shit'."

"That's a pretty accurate representation of the jerk." Allen commented with a smile.

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda retorted.

"So, anyone else who doesn't think we should go for this chance?" the singer asked, throwing two couch pillows at Kanda and Allen.

"I think we're good." The redhead drummer said, stretching. He checked the time from the clock on the wall. "Shit, gotta go. Hey Yuu, think I can get a ride?"

"Think again, Cyclops." Kanda replied, scowling.

"Aw, _please_? Grandpa'll kill me if I don't show up!"

"Then he'll just be doing a favor to the world."

Allen stood up. "Would you like to catch the bus with me?" he offered. "I have enough money to get you and me bus tickets, after all. And riding with someone is always more fun." He grinned.

Lavi smiled back. "You're a clutch, you know?" he said happily.

Kanda grumbled several curses underneath his breath.

The redhead looked at him. "What'd you say, Yuu?" he asked.

"Get your shit and get in the van." The Japanese teen muttered, getting up slowly. "You too, brat. Save your goddamn money." He scowled as he pushed past Allen and Lavi towards the garage. The one-eyed eighteen-year-old let out a whoop and followed his friend excitedly.

The British teenager blinked. "I have no bloody idea what just happened here."

Lenalee snickered. "You just got a touch of his hard-to-catch kindness."

"Kanda can be _kind_?" It sounded unbelievable.

"Only to the people he can stand." The Chinese girl snickered some more.

"But—" That sounded even _more_ unbelievable. Preposterous, even. "Kanda—"

"Is waiting for you."

The van's horn sounded.

* * *

February 3rd, 1985.

"Fine, I'll meet up with you in front of Krory's store." Allen spoke on the phone exasperatedly, a hand on his hip. "Why can't you just pick me up from home? …Don't yell, prick, just…_ugh_." He rubbed his temples. "I said I'd meet you, okay? Are you picking up Lavi? Yes it matters, _twat_. I'm hanging up now. Yes, I am. Good_bye_ Kanda." He practically slammed the phone back on its hold.

Timcanpy rolled on the carpet, tail wagging.

Allen looked on with a sense of envy. "You have such an easy life, Tim."

The puppy yipped in agreement, attempting to bite at his short tail.

Allen laughed, bending down to briefly pet Timcanpy on the head. "Sorry Tim, but I've got to go," he said to the yellow dog. "We've got a show today. Kanda's being a real spazz about then entire 'getting us all to the club' thing, and Lenalee's lucky because Komui agreed to take her there." He sighed. "I bet the only reason he refuses to pick me up from here is because he's scared of you. To hell with it, though, I'm leaving. Bye Tim!" He slipped on his leather gloves.

The dog barked, following the fifteen-year-old as he walked out the house. Allen locked the door and ran to the fence, jumping over it so Timcanpy couldn't follow.

"Aroooo…" Timcanpy whined as the gate was locked as well.

"Love you, Timcanpy!"

With that, the boy jogged in the direction of _Arystar_, Krory's clothing store.

* * *

"I can't believe he's _late_." Allen muttered irritably, checking his wristwatch on his left arm. "That _jerk_ is late!"

He stood outside for a few more moments, annoyance growing with every passing second.

"To _hell_ with him!" he snapped and walked into the store. "If he wants me, he'll have to bloody look for me!"

The clothing store was unusually void of people. Allen walked through the store curiously, not even finding the store's owner.

"Krory?" he called. "Are you here?"

The reply was silence.

"Odd…" he muttered, walking towards the back. "Why would the store be open if no one's here?"

From the back room, though, there were low voices sounding through the wooden door. Allen pressed his ear closer, furrowing his eyebrows. "Is anyone there?" he asked through the door.

A gasp and some scuffling were heard, and a voice recognized only as Krory shouted.

"Help!" he cried. And then a thump sounded, making Allen panic. He twisted the knob and opened the door slowly; pose tense in case of attack.

"Allen!" Krory whined. "Please help me!"

The poor man was in only his black briefs as he sat cross-legged on the ground, a hand of cards in his fingers. His pale face was tear streaked, and a few other men sat near him in a loose circle.

Allen blinked. "Have you been…_gambling_?" he asked carefully.

Krory nodded, sniffling. "Yes."

"And you lost?"

"Yes."

"Wow, that's quite, uh—"

"Pathetic?" a lightly tanned, wavy-haired man finished, smiling a white grin. Stubble brushed his chin and around his mouth, and he wore a pair of odd glasses with a swirling design as well as loose, multicolored clothing. "That's what we said." His voice was deep and melodic, Allen noted. He was probably Portuguese, with that accent.

"Well, I wasn't going to say _that_…"

"Heh, betcha weren't." The man laughed, causing the other men to laugh as well.

Krory sighed, defeated. "I don't know what possessed me to play against them…" he muttered, looking at the dirty floor. "They came in and said that they'd teach me a fun game, which is always something good to know, but then we played this thing called…_poker_…and they took all my clothing. Except for my underwear."

"I'm glad they let you keep your skivvies." Allen commented, smiling. "But, if you're playing poker, then give me a few moments and I'll get you all your clothes back, _plus_."

The bespectacled man smirked pretentiously. "You talk big, kiddo. Think you can handle us all?"

Allen smiled. "Not even a challenge."

* * *

"Royal flush, gentlemen."

The tanned man sighed as he took off his glasses, adding them to the large pile of clothing next to Allen, who hadn't even removed a glove.

A younger man nudged his older companion. "This kid has cleaned us straight out!" he whispered. "Is that even possible?"

"Obviously." Allen replied. He grinned deviously, a quirk in his brow. "Well gentlemen, looks like I win."

"Awww…wanna play again, kiddo?" the wavy-haired man asked, stretching his arms with a smile.

"I don't know, sir."

"Call me Mikky."

"Okay, I don't know, _Mikky_."

Mikky looked sad for a moment. "Well…how about I sing for you?" he offered happily.

Allen paused. "What?"

"I'll sing if you play one more game with me." Mikky continued, golden eyes sparkling. "And I'm a pretty good singer, if I don't say so myself."

"Er, well—"

"C'mon boys!" the man exclaimed, catching his friends attention. "Gimme a rhythm!"

His friends whined and laughed, jostling him roughly as he tried to get them to make his music for him.

"All right, all right," one younger man complied. "We'll make the music. Give'em a beat! Hey!"

"It's A capella, kid." Mikky informed as the others made the beats with their own voices. He coughed into his fist. "_Just a little bit longer…_" he started in a deep drawl that simultaneously entranced and disrupted Allen.

The white-haired boy felt a blush creep up his cheeks as the Portuguese man stared at him.

"_C'mon, stay just a little bit longer… Please, please, please, please tell me that you're goin' to-oo—stay just a little bit longer…_" Mikky continued, leaning in closer to Allen, who felt his skin heat up further. He was a _great_ singer, but there was something so _off_ about him that it was hard to enjoy the full experience.

Krory, who was now fully dressed, rushed in. "Allen, Kanda's out here looking for you," he said quickly, interrupting Mikky's singing. "He's getting violent, too. You might want to finish up quickly."

"All right." Allen replied, placing his hand of cards on the floor. "I'll be out in a minute." He turned to Mikky. "Sorry Mikky, but I've really got to go. Maybe I'll see you again?"

Mikky smirked. "You better believe you'll be seeing me again, kid." He winked. "You own me another game, and I like you too."

"I suppose…" Allen got up, brushing off the seat of his fitted ripped jeans. He hoped that he just imagined the following of Mikky's eyes when he did the motion. "You can put your clothes back on. Goodbye!" He walked out the back room quickly.

Kanda did not look amused as he leaned on his van in front of the store. "I thought I told you to wait in front of the shop, brat," he snapped as he opened the back. Allen jumped in, rolling his eyes.

"If you had not've been late, then I probably would've stood in front like a good little boy."

"You, _good_? Krory told me you were gambling in the back like an old pervert."

"I was _not_!"

The van's tires screeched as the dark-haired driver sped down the surface street, Allen holding on to the right tire's hump for his dear life.

"I heard singing. Was that you, kid?" Kanda asked gruffly, looking behind his shoulder at Allen for a brief moment.

Allen shook his head. "A guy named Mikky was singing to me. He's _really_ good at it, too."

"And he was singing to _you_?"

"You don't have to sound so disbelieving."

* * *

Lol, oh the _homo_.

And since Midnight Chime told me to, I'm going to warn you all about the very insignificant patches of Tyki/Allen. It's not even near a major pairing. Trust me. :D

Six days of no updating…it's a new record! I hope I won't be making it a habit. DDDD:

I honestly to god love all of you readers. I actually felt like crying in the six days we hadn't updated because I didn't want to be such a disappointment (a lie, I felt like crying because a six-year-old punched me in the stomach and despite how I _do_ have a thick, soft belly, it hurt like a bitch). And remember, even if you appreciate the effort to keep this as canon as possible, remember that it is still AU. Certain facts might not show up here (i.e. Allen's initial fear of alcohol) like you might be thinking.

If you've seen the movie _Dirty Dancing_ (which is the BEST 80s MOVIE EVER EVER EVER in my opinion, even if Emiggax is all "D:" when I begin to talk about it), then you might get a better feel for next chapter's music. And the song Ty—uh, Mikky was singing is _Stay_ by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. From the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack, fyi.

And Yamamoto Kou gets total super brownie points for acknowledging the fact that Emiggax is also an author of this fic. It may be written by me, but that doesn't mean I do all the research and think of all the plot points. She feels like an imaginary friend, guys. :P

And when you're sleepy enough, sometimes you don't know _what_ the hell you're doing or eating. Happens to me all the damn time. :(


	10. A Little Respect

_TEN_

"Y'ello Al. What's up?" Lavi greeted from the front of the club as Allen and Kanda walked towards him. "Sorry I wasn't there when Yuu started biting and snapping." The one-eyed redhead shook his head, grinning. "Geez, if he's that killjoy with _you_, I don't want to see him get kids."

The white-haired boy laughed. "Me neither." He looked around. "Where's Lenalee?"

"She's inside, talking to Miss Coldstone Fox. Ah, and you totally missed it! There's a bouncer here, and I kid you not, she's totally a woman! I couldn't believe it—" Lavi exclaimed excitedly.

Kanda shouldered his black and white guitar case, frowning. "Jesus fuckin' Christ its cold out here," he grumbled, rubbing his exposed forearms. "Can't spring come faster?"

"Imagine how I felt, standing outside waiting for _you_." Allen muttered, crossing his arms defiantly.

"How the fuck do you stand outside when you were inside? _Gambling_! Getting serenades from random guys! Oh yeah, I'm such a bad guy for coming on time," the older teen replied tersely, glaring at the ungrateful bastard.

"On time? You came thirty minutes late!"

"Fuck that! I came at six, like I said I would on the fucking phone!"

"How the fuck did you get his number?" Lavi asked in disbelief. "I don't even have his number."

"Shut the fuck up!" Kanda growled. He turned back to Allen. "You're the one in the wrong, brat! My watch is tight and right, bitch!" He practically shoved his wristwatch in the shorter teen's face, who retaliated by rolling his eyes, _passionately_.

"Fancy _that_, because mine is—" He checked his own wristwatch. A nervous chuckle slipped from his lips. "Huh, I think my watch is broken…" The British boy tapped at the glass on his watch, sighing at the lack of movement within it, even the second ticker. "That's the sixth one already!"

Kanda smacked his forehead in exasperation. "So we just had this whole fucking argument for no damn reason?" he demanded. "What the fuck was the point then?"

"I knew you looked for reasons to fight." Allen said, narrowing his eyes.

Lavi laughed. "Something needs to fill the void. I don't think weed is the answer, either."

"You and you," Kanda grumbled, pointing at the other two respectively. "Shut the hell up. You're giving me a headache just listening to both your stupid voices. Shit..."

A book whacked him on the head, cutting him off effectively. The Japanese man growled as he turned around quickly, mouth opening to curse the culprit out thoroughly. "What the f—"

The words died before they even left his lips. And he straightened up, coughing.

Lenalee patted him on the cheek. "Good boy," she teased. "Even though I heard the whole damn argument inside. Geez Allen, Kanda. You guys can't go a _day_ without snapping at each other."

"It's his fault." The two chorused, pointing at each other in an immature manner.

The sixteen-year-old rolled her eyes. "Whatev'. Okay, let's go inside, since everyone's here, _finally_." She opened the door for them, and smiled as a grumpy Kanda and a snickering Lavi walked through. Allen, however, stood behind her and took the door, sighing.

"Gentlemen hold the door open for a lady," he explained with a smile.

Lenalee laughed, walking through. "You're one-of-a-kind, Allen," she replied.

"Thanks," Allen said with a quirky twitch of his lips. "And you're rather unique yourself, Miss Lee."

"The name's Anita," a long-haired Asian woman greeted the group, a smile on her pretty face. "And _this_ is my bouncer, Mahoja. She's a woman, in case you didn't notice."

"What up?" Mahoja asked, arms crossed and her muscles bulging. Her bald head gleamed with the lights from the club, and several earring piercings shone shone through the lobes and cartilages of her ears.

Lavi nudged Allen. "See? See?" he egged. "Total macho man."

"What'd you say?" the bald woman rumbled, looking at the two. "Repeat that shit, _please_."

A tear slipped down Allen's cheek. "Lavi said it!" he exclaimed quickly, hiding behind the redhead. The one-eyed eighteen-year-old felt his lips move but no words were coming out. That was unfortunate, because he really needed to have a conversation with Allen about "teamwork" and "all for one, one for all" and all that jazz.

Kanda stared at the Asian woman, face pinched in confusion and oddly quiet.

Anita looked at him. "Don't hurt yourself, fox," she said teasingly.

He snapped his fingers. "Got it," he spoke suddenly, a victorious smirk on his face. "You're from that seventies band, whatwasitcalled, _Brothel_? Yeah, that's the one."

"Brothel?" Lavi replied, eye wide. "Shit, are you sure? You ain't pullin' my chain, right?"

"Look at her!" Kanda insisted. "She's totally the chick lead singer from Brothel. I got the record at home with the band picture!"

The redhead's expression was skeptical before chancing a hard look at Anita, who smiled charmingly.

"Holy _shit_, it's the chick leader singer from Brothel!" Lavi gasped, pointing at the woman accusingly. He was practically jumping in his place in excitement, leaving Kanda to pull at the collar of his black army jacket. "I can't believe it's the lead singer of Brothel! I mean, holy shit, I'm about to play in a place owned—"

"_Co_-owned." Lenalee corrected.

"Right, right, co-owned. I'm about to play in a place co-owned by _the_ Anita of _Brothel_! That's so fuckin' _stellar_!" Kanda punched him in the back of the head. "Ow, fuck, that smarted, burn-out!"

"Shut your mouth, Jesus fuckin' Christ." The Japanese teenager retorted gruffly, rubbing his knuckles.

Anita laughed delightfully, patting Lavi on the shoulder. "I haven't seen that much enthusiasm towards me in almost a decade," she said happily, a smile on her face. She turned to Kanda, who cocked an eyebrow. "You've got a good memory to recognize me, since I look completely different."

"I like to hotbox in my room with pot while listening to your records and other old bands." Kanda replied seriously. "I'd recognize your voice anywhere, high or not."

Allen choked on the air, unbelieving of the older teen's severe lack of shame. "You don't just _tell_ people that!" he cried, suddenly not wanting to be standing near the guitar player.

"So? What am I supposed to say?" Kanda raised his voice to a higher octave, and sounded like he was mimicking a painstakingly familiar British accent. "'Oh, I enjoy, during my smoking of the marijuana in my living quarters, to partake in the listenage of your music. It's my favorite pastime, indubitably.'"

"Listenage is so not a word!" Lavi pointed out, offended. "I've read the dictionary, _twice_, and that never came up!"

Lenalee looked amazed. "It isn't? He made it sound like one. I was mega convinced."

"Don't make fun of my accent!" Allen snapped, eyebrows furrowed in an offended way. "I've never made fun of _your_ accent before."

"I don't have a fucking accent, dickweed." Kanda replied, crossing his arms.

The youngest member paused, his eyes widening. "You don't, do you?" he mused aloud. "I guess the fact that you're an uncultured brute does help that point."

Anita stepped in at this point, holding her arms out between the two. "Lenalee, dear," she began in an amused tone. "Have you ever thought of working on your band dynamics?"

"Yes." Lenalee answered, smiling sheepishly. "But, Kanda mysteriously disappears every time we try to do something together other than play music and go to school." She glared at said guitar player, who shrugged.

"Tiedoll wanted me to do some shit for him."

Lavi snorted. "You fucking _hate_ Tiedoll."

"Oh yeah, I do. Totally forgot." He hooked his thumbs in his front pants pockets. "Okay, I just don't want to be in a place with the brat and Cyclops for more than practice. School is a maybe."

"Yeah, you _really_ might want to work on band dynamics."

"Right. Band dynamics. Got it." The sixteen-year-old looked up at Anita hopefully. "Can we perform now?"

"Oh. Right." The Asian woman turned to Mahoja. "Is the equipment set up and working?"

Mahoja nodded, her expression as serious as ever. "Tested it out an hour ago, Miss Anita," she replied. "I even got the other ones out too, because I didn't know if you were playing improv or not."

"You know…that is a _great_ idea."

"What's a great idea?" Lenalee asked, an eyebrow cocked.

Anita clasped her hands together, looking at the band with a smile. "Can you guys…play other instruments?"

* * *

"You want Mugen?" Kanda demanded, holding the guitar case close to himself. "Why?!"

Anita sighed, rubbing her temple. "You're too serious about your guitar. All work and no play makes a very dull boy." She held out her hand. "Now give me the guitar."

"Fuck you!"

Mahoja stepped up, but her boss held out an arm. "No Mahoja, I can handle this," she assured. She looked up at the taller Japanese guitar player, a patient smile on her face. "If you give me the guitar, I'll give you an even better instrument."

"Bullshit."

"It's even better than a Gibson."

"Bull_shit_."

"In fact, it's more funk-filled than a synthesizer AND a super Gibson."

"_Bullshit!_"

"Don't believe me?" Anita asked, eyebrow raised.

Kanda snorted. "Do I _look_ like I fucking believe you?" he retorted.

"Why don't you just try? For…Lenalee?"

"Yeah, no." He huffed. "Lenalee would let me keep my guitar."

"How about Lavi?"

"Fuck no. You must be juiced to think anything even _relating_ to that."

"Allen?"

Kanda couldn't even answer, as his jaw just hung open in absolute mortification.

"Okay, not Allen." Anita muttered. "So, how about if you did it for the _band_."

The eighteen-year-old looked suspicious. "The band?" he asked slowly.

"The _band_. They'd appreciate it if you'd just _give me the damn guitar_."

Kanda looked contemplative, like he was wondering whether to tell her "Fuck no" or "Hell fucking no".

"…Fine," he conceded gruffly, slowly loosening his grip on the guitar case. "But the instrument better fucking rock!"

"Oh, don't worry," Anita replied, taking the guitar from him. "It rocks hardcore."

* * *

"What the fuck is _that_?" Lavi asked, shocked. "Where's Mugen?!"

Kanda muttered various curses underneath his breath, tapping at his new instrument with his index finger. "It's a tambourine, hoser," he grumbled, taking his place next to Lenalee on the stage. He glowered at the interested looks he got from the patrons of the nightclub.

Allen snorted in amusement, covering his mouth a little too late as the older teen turned just to glare at him. "What?" he asked, kind of affronted but really quite amused.

"What the fuck is so funny, brat?" Kanda demanded.

The smile was too big to be covered. "Oh, _nothing_."

Before Kanda could get violent, Anita clapped her hands at the band.

"All right kids," she said happily. "Something I like to do is help bands out with a little thing called _improv_. It's like playing pretend, only I take your instruments and force you to play a new one."

The other band members all snickered at Kanda, who shook his tambourine at them threateningly.

"So…show me what you can do. Allen, play the synthesizer slowly."

Allen did as he was told, a confused look on his face.

"Wait," Anita said, holding out a hand. "Turn off the synth. Just play the piano on the keyboard."

"Err, okay." The British teenager switched off the electric sound of the synthesizer and tested out the keys steadily. It produced a quick, tense sound that could only come from a genuine piano. "Now what?"

"Lavi, tap the left tom."

"Will do, sweetheart!" the redhead affirmed, tapping his drumsticks on the left tom drum.

"Kanda, shake the tambourine _slowly_."

"I don't want to." But he did it anyway after Lenalee threw him a sad look. The things he did to insure she stayed happy, _really. _

Anita smiled. "Good!" she said, clasping her hands together.

Lenalee blinked. "It sounds like some sort of old-school doo-wop sound," she commented, tapping her foot to the beat.

"That's because it is. You see the people in this club? Do they _look_ like they're into your kind of music?"

The Chinese girl looked at the crowd milling about the club. They were all _significantly_ older than the band, which made her understand why they were playing such outdated music. "Oh."

"And as a band, you might want to adapt to other kinds of music to fit different kinds of audiences," Anita continued. "That's why the synthesizer and the electric guitar wouldn't've fit. Besides, Kanda looks cute when he's pouting."

Kanda abruptly stopped shaking the tambourine. "I'm not fucking pouting!" he snapped.

"Aren't you adorable?"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"That kid's gotta real dirty mouth…" a somewhat drunk man said, his voice slurred. "These days man, these days the kids…they got no…no…Tommy, help me out here!"

"It's okay Buzz, don't hurt yourself thinking," another man said, patting his companion's back soothingly.

Anita gave Kanda a smug look. "You'll get nowhere if you keep that up," she purred. "Now shake your tambourine. With a _smile_."

Kanda shook his tambourine.

But he did not smile.

* * *

"You guys did great. I feel bad for inflicting such torture on your poor guitar player."

Kanda rolled his eyes. "Right, keep it up _Joanie_."

"I'm going to ignore that." Anita held Mugen out to Kanda with a smile. "I'll give you back your…_Mugen_…if you let me sing with you guys next. I haven't sung in a few years, and you guys look like you might be good enough to handle me."

Lavi gasped, his face reminiscent of a virgin's first orgasm. "Oh _GOD_ yes!" he cried, jumping up behind the trap set quickly and banging his head against the cymbals. "Shit!"

"Oh my god, _really_?" Lenalee asked, eyes wide. "You want to sing with us? Seriously?"

"Only if Kanda smiles."

Allen almost fell as his legs considered giving out on him, and there were no words that could possibly portray the feeling he possessed at that very moment.

Except for extreme sadistic amusement, as he clamped his glove hands over his mouth.

"I can't smile." Kanda replied. "Smiling is for yuppies."

"You'll get free publicity though if you smile."

"I don't want t—" He paused as he took in the hopeful faces of his other band members. Lavi was mouthing "Do it, do it, do it, oh for the love of the Beetles do it" and Allen was bent over the synthesizer, shoulders shaking intensely. Lenalee was pouting, and Kanda felt like he was kicking puppies for a moment.

His lips twitched upwards, and he furrowed his eyebrows as he tried as hard as he could to crack the smallest smile possible.

Allen peeked at him from his fingers, and then broke down in more laughter.

Kanda scowled. "I can't do it."

"Too bad." Anita gave him Mugen anyway. "I didn't think you could. I was just yanking your chain." She turned to Lenalee. "May I have the microphone?"

"Oh, for sure!" The Chinese girl blinked in amazement as Anita held the microphone to her lips. "So what do I do?"

"You'll just learn, of course. I can teach you better than these boys." Anita grinned, turning to Lavi. "Give me a beat!"

"Hell yes, anything for the lead singer of Brothel and the British!" Lavi threw himself into a hard hitting beat with the snare drum and the bass drum.

"Nice!" the Asian woman pointed at Allen. "Now you play a bunch of piano keys, don't even look at the keyboard when you do!"

Allen closed his eyes hit several piano keys at once, and then at Lavi's beat, he hit the same keys twice more. His eyes opened with a start. "This is actually a blast!" he said, amazed.

"And Kanda, you can play the guitar. But, don't shake it."

"Ha. Ha ha." The Japanese teen grumbled. "Whatev'." He began playing, his eyes closing and eyebrows furrowing.

"Okay, here goes everything!" Anita inhaled deeply. She opened her mouth, and the words poured out of a slightly dry but passionate larnyx. "_Drivin' around, I just can't hear a sound…  
'Cept my own wheels turnin'  
Wastin' away, I'm just runnin' away  
But I can't run forever… _

"_Yes! We're gonna fall in love!  
And it feels so right and…yes!  
We're gonna keep lovin'  
And it'll be tonight and…  
I can just imagine… loving and huggin' and kissin' and squeezin' tonight!_"

She stopped for a moment, clearing her throat. "_Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh yes!  
Heavin' and lovin' and squeezin' all night!  
Uh-uh-uh yes! I can just imagine!  
Lovin' and squeezin' all night! Oh, yes!_"

Their applause was the closest thing to thunder.

* * *

February 4th, 1985.

Lavi immediately pulled up his form-fitting black shirt as they waited in front of _Time_. "Do you think I could get an autograph?" he asked excitedly, pointing at his taut abs, a marker in his hands. "Right here, on the first row of abs."

"Okay, okay, stud." Anita said pleasantly, taking the marker and carefully scribbling a Chinese symbol on his stomach. "Hope you're happy."

"Happy?" Lavi demanded, eye wide. "I'm, like, beyond happy! I'm fuckin' _killer_!"

"Ha ha, right." The woman turned to the other members of the band. "I'll definitely be coming to your shows. I haven't sung like that in _years_. Give me another show like that one day?"

Lenalee grinned. "Of course!" she said gleefully. Then she smacked Lavi, who was making Allen feel up his stomach near the signature. "Freak."

Anita laughed, delighted.

* * *

DAMN YOU NEW CHARACTER FILTER. DAMN YOU TO HELL. /end capslock

I don't know what to put this as. Kanda and Allen or Lavi and Allen?

Okay, now I can go update other fanfics. Because I told myself that I wouldn't update anything else until I at least reached chapter ten. So…I guess I'll go update The Incredible You. (SilentKiller1, the answer is yes. D: Please turn on your PM system if you want better replies.)

Next two to three chapters will be fillers, so we can pass the dates and get the hell out of February quicker. I feel like it's time for some gay boy action. (Kanda/Allen or Lavi/Allen? A _mystery_.)

And since they will be fillers, you can suggest things you'd like to see. You know, like "I want to see Kanda run over someone with his (pimpmobile) van" or "I'd like to see Komui make a super robot". Emiggax and I will discuss it, and if we come to a conclusion, it'll be done. :D But only if EMIGGAX WILL ANSWER HER GODDAMN PHONE. Your dad thinks I'm weird, hor.

And if it's music-related, please please _please_ remember that Lenalee sings. Not Allen. And speaking of British pansies, the song used in this is _Yes_ by Merry Clayton.

And now: I've tried to make each chapter as fun and good a read as possible. Please tell me if I've succeeded. :D

(And, LOL Allen's watch broke. Get it? Get it? God I have no life. D: Seriously.)


	11. Barracuda

_ELEVEN_

February 6th, 1985.

"Watch out, Tim!"

Timcanpy yelped as the vacuum cleaner went straight by his bed in the hallway. "Woof!" he barked in outrage, standing up straight in his small cot.

Allen hummed underneath his breath and waved at the puppy in apology, large headphones over his ears. He walked to the beat of the music he was listening to, singing quietly underneath his breath.

The yellow puppy whined, trotting after the white-haired boy. He perked up, though, at the sound of footsteps in the house that weren't overridden by the vacuum's sound. Timcanpy ran to Allen's room, nudging the door open with his nose. He grinned, prepared to bite any intruders with his knife-like teeth.

Instead, it was just a mangy redhead slumped on the ground, grinning sheepishly. "Hey Tim!" he greeted with a wave. Lavi stood up unsteadily, grabbing the edge of Allen's bed. "Where's my Brit ol' Boy?"

"Woof." Timcanpy stared at the tall male.

"Right, right." Lavi stared at the dog for a few moments. There was something decidedly different about the white-socked dog. "Did you get bigger, Tim?"

The dog gave him a deadpan look. "Woof."

"I'm guessing you're saying…_No shit, Sherlock_." The teenager rolled his eye in amusement, scratching his chin. He grinned. "Sorry, pooch." The eighteen-year-old walked into the hallway, yawning. "Guess I'll just psyche him."

He snuck down the hall silently, which wasn't really needed since the sound of the vacuum was louder than any steps he could've made.

Regardless, Allen paused, looking around suspiciously. Lavi stopped in his tracks, one eye blinking.

The vacuum cleaner turned off. But Allen's singing did not.

"—_You can touch me everywhere_," he sung in his weak imitation of a black woman. Lavi could not help himself, with a grin spreading on his face.

"Hell _yes_."

"Bloody _hell_!" the boy cried, swinging around in a panic. His large headphones fell down his neck, and his exposed dark red hand was clenched into a fist. He stared at Lavi, who simply waved back. "Lavi?"

"As if it'd be anyone else, kid," the redhead replied, smirking confidently.

"You almost scared the trousers off of me!"

"British-talk for 'You just about scared the _shit_ outta me'," Lavi replied smugly, crossing his arms. "I'm getting good at this shit. So, what's this about me touching you everywhere?" He smirked wider.

Allen rolled his eyes, hands on his hips. "Bite me, Lavi," he retorted playfully.

"Hey, you asked for it." Lavi said, holding up his hands in a show of surrender. He leaned down, pressing his right ear to a side of the headphones. The green-eyed teen barked a laugh, jostling the younger boy. "You dig the funk, Al? Never would'a thought you were an _Mtume_ fan, of all artists."

"Shut it," Allen muttered, sniffing. "I find all music to be amazing in some way. It just so happens that Cross, for _some_ reason, had this cassette lying about."

"And you listened to it?"

"Of course. It looked interesting."

Lavi grinned, waggling his eyebrows. "It was interesting all right." He leaned on the wall as Allen began putting up the vacuum cleaner. "Which makes me think. Quickie question, how long have you been in the U.S? Because you don't know nearly enough about the music here if you're listening to _Mtume._"

"About eight months, if I'm correct. I traveled with Cross for a few years before…and then he dropped me off _here_, in America, spurting some bollocks about me needing to make friends and settle down somewhere." Allen snorted in disbelief. "He was just tired of carting me around, I bet. I don't really _like_ America that much…it's really way-out."

"Aww…does that mean you regret meeting me, Brit?"

"What?" the gray-eyed boy shook his head. He flashed a white smile. "I'd never regret meeting you, Lavi. That's impossible."

"Heh," Lavi chuckled, smiling charmingly. "Right back at'cha, Al. So, wanna go to M.C.D's with me?"

"M.C.D's?"

"McDonald's, kid. Awesome place with trippy food." The redhead grinned wider. "C'mon, go with McDonald's with me! It'll be like a date!"

Allen stared at him as though the one-eyed man were an idiot. "A…date? And that's supposed to make me want to go?"

"Well…" Lavi kicked at the carpet, thumbs in his blue jean pockets. "Yeah. I mean, you _would_ be hanging out with me. Isn't that stellar enough by itself?"

Allen huffed in amusement, walking by the older teenager on the way down the hall. "Sure, why not?" he replied. "I bet it'll be awesome."

Lavi let out a whoop. "Killer!" he cheered. He tapped his chin in thought. "Let's go…Friday."

"Why Friday?" the white-haired boy asked curiously.

"Because bus tokens cost too fucking much. We'll need a ride, of course."

* * *

February 8th, 1985.

"Yuu, we're going to McDonald's." Lavi said seriously, hands folded on the cafeteria table.

Kanda looked offended. "Hell no," he replied. "I'm going home, and then I'm going to bed. I count that as better things to do than hang out with you and the brat."

"Hey! You aren't supposed to have a choice in the matter!" the redhead whined. He turned to the Chinese girl next to Kanda. "Lenalee! Make him come to McDonald's with me and Allen! Ow, shit, I mean Allen and I!" He pulled a face at the younger boy sitting next to him. "Grammar nazi."

"Indeed." Allen replied, swallowing his burger from the school's lunch. He shrugged. "I couldn't give more of a care if he got hit by a car, Lavi. I'm sorry, but having Kanda there will just ruin my appetite."

Lavi pouted. "No it won't!"

"No it won't, but still."

Kanda glared at the fifteen-year-old. "Your face is a constant ruin of _my_ appetite. You keep this up and I just might become anorexic," he retorted.

"Then just another point to why you shouldn't go to McDonald's with us!"

Lenalee looked up from her studying, pencil between her lips. "I think it's a great idea," she said. "After all, we _do_ need to work on band dynamics. I'm sorry boys, but at this rate you three'll be decking it out onstage. And Allen wouldn't win."

"I would win!" Allen said, affronted. "I can fight! Kanda wouldn't stand a chance against me." The Japanese teen started coughing immediately, almost falling off the cafeteria bench backwards. He gasped and pulled himself up, trying to hold back the hacking.

"But would you win against Kanda _and_ Lavi at the same time?" the girl smirked, poking the boy on the forehead with her eraser. "I don't think so, Slick."

Allen tried not to pout, but the lack of faith in his fighting skills was rather downplaying. "But…Lavi wouldn't try and fight against me…would he?" he asked sweetly, glancing to his side at the redhead.

Lavi scratched behind his neck, shaking his head. "Naw," he answered. "I'd never raise a fist against my Brit. In fact, since he's from a foreign land, I'll be like his bodyguard and fight for him. So, Yuu's ass will be kicked, because Al's got me!"

"Not this shit again…" the Japanese guitar player groaned, rolling his eyes.

"I totally floored your ass, man! You know I did!"

"Just give it up, Cyclops. You know and I know that you couldn't kick my ass if you had a lead pipe and a twenty minute handicap."

"Dude. _Harsh. _Chill out, man."

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda leaned back, crossing his arms with a scowl. "Now let me finish eating."

"Fine!" Allen replied, huffing. "I didn't want to go with you anyway!"

"Really? I still don't give a damn."

Lenalee sighed. "You just don't get it sometimes, Kanda," she said sternly, hitting him atop the head lightly. She smiled at Lavi and Allen, ignoring her older friend's irritated yelp. "We're totally going, and Kanda's giving us the ride."

"What?" Kanda demanded. "Oh _hell_ no—"

"What was that, Kanda?" the Chinese girl retorted, holding a hand to her ear. "'Cause it kinda sounded like you were bitching."

Allen snorted. "What's so different then?" he muttered.

Kanda's plastic fork immediately crushed into mere splinters in his clenched hand, his facial expression conveying murderous intent.

Lavi looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Oh _shit_."

"Allen," Lenalee chided. "I do my best to keep Kanda from going samurinja on your cute British ass, but you're making it _mega_ difficult. He's, like, _this_ big…" She held up her hand in a show of an exaggeration. "And you're like, _this_ big." The hand was lowered by at least two feet. "Promise me you won't fight at McDonald's today."

"Fine." The British teenager mumbled grudgingly. "I won't. By the way, that was a gross exaggeration of my size compared to the jerk's size."

"And Lavi, promise me you won't egg them on. You have a _really_ bad habit of doing that."

"Hey, American's honor." Lavi replied smugly, holding his right hand to his chest.

"Your honor means _shit_, Cyclops." Kanda commented, smirking.

"I know, right?"

* * *

"—I am not that short!" Allen insisted as he sat in a booth with Lenalee, who rolled her eyes because this was already established.

"We've already finished this convo, Allen," she replied. "Like I said thirty minutes ago, you're only slightly shorter than Lavi and Kanda, okay? And the only way that'll change is by hitting puberty, which should've happened a while ago."

"For girls, maybe!" the gray-eyed boy retorted. "Boys grow slower than girls do, it's a proven fact."

"Maybe when you turn eighteen you'll be the same size as those two." Lenalee assured carefully, not looking into his eyes.

"But then they'll be twenty-one and I'll be eighteen. I'm doomed to be smaller than them, which means I'll forever be teased for my size by both Lavi and Kanda."

"Well…"

"Yep, you're screwed, Brit." Lavi said happily as he slid in the booth next to Allen, a tray of drinks in his hands. "Yuu's on his way with the food."

Allen frowned. "My food too?" he asked. He was actually hoping Lavi would be the one to get the food. Kanda was really too predictable, and chances were that he would probably sabotage his meal.

"Duh." The redhead jabbed a thumb towards the tall long-haired irritable teenager who stood in line. "But I made him promise not to spit in anyone's food. Here's your Pepsi, Al." He passed a large cup to the white-haired boy. "Oh, and you would _not_ believe who I saw!" he whispered furiously to Lenalee, passing her a cup as well.

Lenalee cocked an eyebrow. "Who?" she asked, taking a sip of her beverage.

"When I was in the backroom bathroom, I bumped into no one else but Daisya Barry."

She coughed on the drink in her throat. "_Daisya_?"

"Daisya. And he was in the mirror, applying make-up like a pro." Lavi smirked. "He's got a job here, I found out."

"He's got a _job_?"

"That's what I said. But anyway!" he coughed into his fist. "Like I was saying, he's got a job here, and it's something he's actually _good_ at. Hey, don't look at me like that, I told you I was deked too. So I told him to drop by our table, pointed us out and everything." Lavi grinned, his eye narrowed deviously. "I can't wait until Yuu catches drift of him!"

Allen looked slightly bewildere. "I'm sorry," he started. "Who _is_ Daisya?"

Lenalee shook her head at Lavi, who smacked his forehead in remembrance. "Shit!" he muttered. "I keep forgetting you're, like, new and stuff. Daisya is Yuu's brother."

"What?" Kanda has _relatives_? "That's…uh…" That disturbed Allen more than his first encounter with Cross on a Friday night.

"Be more specific, hoser!" the Chinese girl retorted, hitting Lavi over the head.

"Sorry! Geez, gimme a break." The redhead huffed. "Daisya is Yuu's _foster_ brother. They lived together with our grumpy guitarist's foster father, an elite geezer named Tiedoll, and a few other guys for a good seven years, until the Long-Haired Wonder moved out the second he turned eighteen. Yuu can hardly _stand_ Daisya, but then again, Yuu can hardly stand anyone."

"Daisya has a bad habit of reminding Kanda of Tiedoll and everything else he hates relating to Tiedoll." Lenalee explained. "So, it's a guaranteed disaster if Daisya pops by while Kanda is around. Which makes me ask… why the hell did you tell him?" She glared pointedly at Lavi.

"Hey, it's all good." Lavi nudged Allen, giving him a secret smile. "It'll be hilarious, I swear, Brit. You're gonna love it!" he whispered in the boy's ear, making Allen roll his eyes. Lavi's sense of humor was kind of warped, in his opinion.

"What the fuck are you guys doing, huddled up so close?" Kanda's deep voice sounded, and the Japanese teenager got in the booth next to Lenalee, a tray of assorted food in his hands. He narrowed his eyes at the other three. "You're talking about me, aren't you?"

"Because you're just that important." Allen retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Shut the fuck up." He huffed. "I got your goddamn food, didn't I? Be fuckin' grateful I didn't do any weird shit to it like Cyclops would."

The British boy refrained from scowling as he took his boxed burger and fries from the tray, mouth set in a straight line. "Thank you," he said.

"Whatever. Shut up." Kanda stuck the straw for his drink in his mouth. He gagged seconds later. "What the fuck kind of green tea is this, Cyclops?!" he demanded.

Lavi winced. "Err…_yeah_. The iced kind?" he replied jokingly.

"Oh, fuck _you_ man." The Japanese teenager sipped at it again, face set in a scowl.

"Hey, have you talked to Tiedoll lately?" the redhead asked, pointing a fry at his friend.

"What the fuck? I'd get hit by a car before I call _him_."

Allen blinked. "What's so bad about this Tiedoll?"

Kanda sneered. "Every time he's around, he fucking tries to hug me and shit. And then he's all, 'let me help you out, Yuu m'boy, since you'll be graduating soon.'" He furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't need any goddamn help."

Interesting. The white-haired boy spent his time chewing slowly and reevaluating his initial opinion of Kanda. So the older teenager clearly hated hugs and help.

"Oh!" Lavi gasped, nudging Allen. "There he is!"

Allen looked up, trying to see over the booth. His eyes widened.

"Ronald Mc_Donald_?" he asked incredulously. McDonald's very own mascot was walking jovially towards them, a large smile on his young face.

Lenalee shook her head. "Guaranteed disaster, Red," she muttered, eating a chicken nugget.

"What the hell are talking about?" Kanda asked, eyebrow cocked.

"Hey!" Ronald McDonald greeted happily. "Having a great time?" He patted the first person in the booth's shoulder, who just so happened to hate touching from strangers.

In a flash, Kanda's fist smashed into the poor man's face.

"Oh shit!" Lavi exclaimed, eye wide. "Moded!"

Kanda was on top of the hired clown, clenched fist posed over his red nose. He snarled as he prepared to beat the shit out of the poor clown.

"Yuu?!" the clown cried, face distressed. "It's me, Daisya!"

The eighteen-year-old stared. "Who?"

"Daisya! We lived together for a fuckin' dick year, man!"

"Oh. _Oh_, _that_ Daisya." Kanda stood up slowly, cracking his knuckles. "What the fuck're you doing here?"

"Working, maybe?" Daisya retorted, getting off the ground shakily. "Fuck, that smarts!" he whined, holding his cheek.

Allen coughed into his fist. "You've got a little blood right here," he said, pointing at his own nose.

The painted man touched the spot underneath his nose. "Shit!" he cried. "You messed up my make-up! Why the fuck would you invite me to this booth without warning my favorite psycho, Lavi?!"

Kanda looked at Lavi, glaring. Allen and Lenalee both shared disapproving looks.

The redhead shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I thought it would've been funny."

* * *

February 10th, 1985.

"So…Daisya got fired." Lavi commented as he leaned onto the locker next to the British boy's, arms crossed.

Allen closed his locker, sighing. "I wonder why," he replied, pushing his books into Lavi's arms. "Hold these for me, would you?"

"I said sorry, right?" the redhead replied. "I mean, it was funny though, wasn't it?"

"I will admit that the expression on Kanda's face was priceless." The younger teenager readjusted his gloves, tightening them around his wrist.

"Then it was funny. Although, I still don't understand the point of him calling _me_. He didn't have to come to the booth, y'know?"

The British boy shook his head. "Sometimes, when push comes to shove…wait, is that Lenalee?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

Lavi squinted his eye, trying to see whatever it was that Allen was seeing. "Hey…I _think_ it is…who's that guy she's chatting up?"

The Chinese girl was farther down the hallway, talking to a light-haired, tall boy wearing a green army jacket.

"I have no idea." Allen replied slowly, a white eyebrow raised. He looked at the taller teenager. "I've got to get to class, so I'll take my books back now."

"It's all good, Brit. I'll just carry them."

"I'm not a girl, Lavi. Give me back my books."

"Hmm…" Lavi made a show of tapping his chin in thought. "Nope. Don't feel like it."

"Why _not_?"

"Because I don't. Holy shit, is Lenalee crying?" the one-eyed drummer gasped, practically throwing the books back into Allen's arms. From a distance, it did seem as though the Chinese girl was wiping at her eyes as the boy she was speaking to waved his hands in clear panic.

"Wha—?" the boy followed Lavi hurriedly, confused. "Lenalee is crying?"

"I bet it's that fuck-off's fault. The one she was talking to!"

"Maybe we shouldn't jump to conclusions so easily. It might not be his problem."

* * *

"It wasn't Toma's fault." Lenalee explained during lunch. "I was bogus just for trying."

Kanda shrugged. "Whatev'. I just thought I should ask because Cyclops was making such a big fucking deal out of it all day."

"But she was _crying_ and her sadness was making Al sad and with both of them sad I'm sad and I still want to kick that guy's ass!" Lavi insisted, gesturing wildly.

The Chinese girl ignored him. "Hey, Kanda? Am I ugly?" Lenalee asked, poking at her chicken sandwich.

"No." Kanda replied automatically, chewing his own food.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"No."

"Would you date me?"

"No." Lenalee looked appalled. Kanda smacked his forehead, frowning at his imminent stupidity. "Shit, I didn't mean that! I meant, uh, yeah. Or something."

"Really?" the girl replied slowly. "So, do you think I'd be a good kisser?"

"I—uh—_fuck_!"

Lenalee grabbed the Japanese teenager's face and pressed her lips to his, hard.

Allen's fork dropped from his gloved fingers, and he stared at the two, mouth gaping.

Kanda pulled away roughly, gasping and gagging. "What the _fuck_ was that for?!" he demanded.

She shrugged. "Just trying to see if I'm a good kisser. Don't have a cow."

"I need to burn my tongue, or I need my milk." He glanced around, glaring. "Where the hell is my milk?!" Kanda looked up, spying Lavi with a carton that wasn't quite there before. "Oh, you _dickweed_."

A light line of milk dribbled from the redhead's lips, and he smiled bashfully.

The oldest teenager snarled. "Fuck this!" And he leaned over the tabletop, pressing his lips to Lavi's roughly.

Allen forgot to breathe for a moment as he stared incredulously.

Lenalee blinked, hand to her mouth in shock.

Kanda pushed Lavi away, wiping his mouth off with his forearm.

The green-eyed teenager hacked, trying to wipe off his tongue. "What the fuck, man?" he snapped, eyebrows furrowed. "What the hell was _that_?"

"Getting my milk back, fucker," the other eighteen-year-old retorted, crossing his arms.

Lavi stuck out his tongue. "_You_ need to burn your tongue? I need to quarantine mine! _Fuck_!" He looked at Allen, who was still mostly shell shocked. "_Hey_…" He leaned closer with a grin. "Wanna be my quarantine?"

Allen held up a hand. "Get _bent_," he threatened. "You kiss me, I do something drastic."

Lenalee laughed. "Best birthday ever."

* * *

LOL WUT McDONALD'S?

This story is simply in the Allen category because he is very important. The main character, even! :D

Next chapter will be more Kanda/Allen gay. I swear. :D I like Kanda/Allen a little more anyway, but only because I kind of shipped it first. (And I swear to god that I will update The Incredible You at some point.)

Plot devices used in this chapter: (gay dorky band field trip), dead or alive0013 (band bondage!) Ravenna-Song (Lenalee pwning Kanda-bear), and Emiggax said she'd shank a bitch if I didn't make Kanda go to McDiabeetus (lol wut).

And anonymous, I don't know who the hell you are, but you and Split Soul were really nice in your requests for Kanda/Lenalee. So, there you have it. Lenalee/Kanda+Lavi-Allen. UMF OT4 MATH EQUATION IS SO HOT not really

But after that, no more pairing requests please. I'm not trying to be rude, but this story is already planned out and the pairings that you will see regardless of whatever pops up are in the summary. We really appreciate all of you though, and your ideas are all great. So great, we decided to see if we can use all of them in the story period. GREAT JOB. :D


	12. We Close Our Eyes

_TWELVE_

February 25th, 1985.

"Can you play any other instrument than the guitar?" Allen asked, watching the older teen with bored eyes. He sat cross-legged on the couch in the garage, hands behind his head as Kanda stood farther to the other side, Mugen in his arms.

Kanda paused, looking up. "I can play whack-a-Brit with my guitar case," he replied in his usual acerbic tone of voice. He furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "And the sax."

"Kinky." The British boy smirked, his arms repositioning to the back of the couch. "That says a lot about your personality. The saxophone, I mean."

"What? Wait, why the hell are you even _talking_ to me?" The Japanese guitarist growled, scowling. "I can hardly look at your face without getting the urge to puke. That scar over your eye is pretty fuckin' fugly."

"Don't be such an arse." Allen huffed, rolling his gray eyes. "I don't even remember what I might've done that offended you so much—"

"Try existing, and then we'll get somewhere."

"—but I'd like to have a better relationship with you. We're in this band together, you know."

Kanda narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to piss me off?" he retorted. "If you got hit by a truck, I'd still care less. We aren't meant to have a better relationship, or whatever the hell you're trying."

"That sounds like a personal problem, twat." Allen muttered, tipping his nose up in offense.

Calloused fingers strummed at the black and white guitar. "Whatev'. _Fuck_!" The C-string snapped, curling as Kanda put his slightly bleeding index finger in his mouth. "Third one this month! Un-be-fuckin'-lievable." He glared at the fifteen-year-old opposite of him. "You're the damn personal problem of mine."

"You tell me that when I start showing up in your dreams, _then_ we'll talk."

"Cheeky brat," the Japanese teen grumbled, finger still in his mouth. "I'd push you into a locker if we were at school."

"Simple minds for simple people." Allen chuckled. "Much like the common bully. But, you wouldn't be able to pull it off, because you're blatantly an idiot."

"Fuck you, kid." Kanda sniffed. "I'm not gonna start with you, because I already know I'm smarter than you'll ever be, sophomore brat."

Surprised, Allen grinned. He clapped his hands slowly, an eyebrow cocked. "For once you didn't argue back," he said in an amused tone. "I threw the bait in your face, even. Dare I say it, but, you've been raised to a new light in my eyes."

"Get bent, dickweed."

"And now you are back to square one." He sighed, shrugging. "But, what can you do about it? Arsehole."

"Quit talking. The way you pronounce 'ass' creeps me the fuck out."

Lavi stepped into the garage, hand over his forehead. "Lenalady," he cried in shock. "Check it out! We bounce for, like, an hour, and neither one is dead!"

Lenalee poked her head through the door. "No way!" she exclaimed, semi-teasingly. "We are talking about Kanda and Allen, right?"

"None other. Yuu's scowling like someone slashed his tires, and Al's smiling like a murderer. It's impossible for them to be anyone else!" He plopped on the couch next to Allen; one leg sprawled over the younger boy's crossed ones. "Incredible."

Kanda flipped them off with the hand that wasn't bleeding. "Shut up," he muttered. "I bet you two didn't do _shit_, fucking losers."

The Chinese girl threw a spoon at the older teen, hitting the target dead on. "We actually _were_ at _Time_, trying to get some info on the show. We're on in two weeks, so we need to get seri—why the hell is your finger in your mouth?" she asked incredulously.

"The brat's ugly mug made my guitar string snap," he muttered, taking his finger out of his mouth slowly. "String cut my finger, and I don't have a damn band-aid."

"_My_ ugly mug?" Allen barked a laugh. "It was probably sick of _your_ horrid attitude." The ends of his lips quirked in an upward motion. "I hate to be choice, but my face is better looking. Because I _smile_."

Lavi raised his arm in the air. "Totally. The bit about Brit-boy's face being clutch because he smiles all-the-fucking-time, of course," he assured Kanda, who actually didn't care. "I'll always love you first, Yuu!"

"I'll kill you with this broken guitar string," the Japanese man snarled, glaring straight at the laughing redhead.

"Try again, hoser!" Lavi cackled. He leaned over to Allen. "You say one wrong word, he sets off. It's fucking _hilarious_, I'm telling you. Watch," he looked at Kanda. "Faggot."

"Fuck you!" Kanda stuck his bleeding finger back in his mouth, scowling and muttering curses.

"I love this guy, Al." He nudged the British boy with his leg. "C'mon, you try."

Lavi, Allen decided, clearly had some sort of vendetta against mankind with all of his suicidal requests. "I'd rather not," he replied carefully.

"Man, you're no fun, Eurofag." The one-eyed teen sighed. "I guess you do have common sense. Such a _bore_, baby."

"Don't call me 'baby'," Allen said, arms crossed and smiling. "And you can get yourself killed with your iffy requests. I, on the other hand, know much more effective ways to get my favorite guitarist brassed off."

"What the fuck is 'brassed off'?" Lavi asked, leaning up on the old couch.

"Fed up. Pissed off, even."

"Shit. You Brits are bad with your English." Allen did not feel like informing Lavi that his way of butchering the English language with his constant slang was just as bad, possibly worst, than anything the white-haired boy would ever say.

"Way to be blinkered about it," he replied, rolling his gray eyes.

The green-eyed teen smirked. "Gotcha," he purred. "'Bad' means good, can you relate?"

Allen still hated American slang. _A lot._

* * *

February 26th, 1985.

Howard Link was practically pulling out his hair as he stormed through the hallways, looking for one student that _always_ managed to elude him in his most desperate situations.

"Yuu Kanda!" he roared through the hallways, bursting into the class the alleged student _should've_ been in angrily. "Wenham! Where the hell is he?!"

A tanned, ruffled looking, unshaven man stared at him. "…_Right_," he continued in his thick Australian accent. "Like I was sayin' _before_ the interruption—"

"Whassup pimple-face!" Lavi greeted excitedly, waving his arm exuberantly. "How's it hanging in bunkville? Lame? Thought so." There was scattered laughter among the other students in the class, including the teacher.

Link's right eyebrow twitched as he took calming breaths. "Lavi…" he said calmly. "You're Yuu's best friend, aren't you?"

"Oh, but fer sure. Five years, baby." Lavi grinned. "Going on six."

"_Great job_. Then you should know where he is right now, wouldn't you?" the blond man attempted a peaceful smile.

The eighteen-year-old looked disturbed. "Dude…drop the smile." He shook his head. "Why do you need to find Yuu anyway?"

"He punched his Literature teacher in the face," the vice principal explained. "After Mr. Yeegar rejected his assignment."

"Excellent!" Lavi exclaimed, leaning forward on his desk. "What'd he do next?"

Link scowled. "He walked out the class, and I've been on the lookout for him for _thirty-five_ minutes."

Reever whistled. "I dunno, Mr. Link," he commented. "When that boy leaves, he _disappears_. You're better off leavin' him."

"Reever's right," the green-eyed teen agreed. "And if you do catch him, he'll only beat the living shit outta you. He doesn't like you, you know."

The blond man closed his eyes. "I know," he said with gritted teeth. "And I need to apply the proper discipline to _not_ give this school a bad name!"

"Too late," the Australian man whistled. He yawned. "Look, Mr. Link, Lavi doesn't know 'bout where that cranky bastard is hangin' out, 'cause he would've told you by now. So…if you don't mind…" He waved a hand towards his students. "I've gotta class to teach."

"Ah, well then," Link huffed in defeat. "Carry on." He stepped out the class, closing the door in a much softer manner than when he opened it.

Reever stared after him. "Aw'right," he started with a grin. He turned towards the class. "Who can give me the chemical formula of a class-disrupting _arsehole_?"

* * *

Allen closed the door to his classroom, opting to walk down the hallway towards the restroom.

He was not surprised to see Link stalking towards him.

"Hello Link," Allen greeted with a smile. "What's the rush?"

"I'm looking for someone." The man answered tersely, stopping in his tracks. "Why aren't you in class?"

The fifteen-year-old cocked an eyebrow. "I'm going to the restroom." Was there anything else to do?

"Ah." Link paused. "Continue then. And if you see Yuu, for god's sake, _please_ tell me!" He continued down the hall in his brisk, randomly staring through door windows of various classes.

Allen quirked an eyebrow. "And a good day to you too," he muttered sarcastically. Reaching the restroom, he walked through and headed straight for the urinals. Unzipping his pants, he prepared himself for a relaxing moment of relief and stared ahead at the wall while he handled his business.

Then, his relief trickled to a sputtering stop as he realized there was something wrong with the room. "What the blast is that smell?" he asked aloud.

"The fuck? Dude, you're in a fucking _restroom_, dickweed." A familiar voice retorted through the window. "Try that one again."

Allen sucked in a breath, eyes narrowed. He returned all the equipment to it's rightful place and zipped up his pants with shaky fingers. "_Kanda_," he murmured lowly, walking to the open window of the restroom. He poked his head out, looking down. Kanda sat on the concrete ground against the brick wall, glaring. "What're you doing there?"

The Japanese teen looked up. "What the fuck? That creep of a vice principal is out for me," he growled. "What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"Hiding?"

"Well fuckin' A, Whitey's gotta brain on him." Kanda stuck a thin cigarette in his mouth. "Boss."

Allen grimaced. "And you're smoking? Very conspicuous. Especially while you're skiving."

"I'm not smoking, dweeb," the eighteen-year-old rolled his eyes. "I'm dragging."

"What the difference?" the British boy asked, leaning his elbows on the windowsill.

"Marijuana."

"…Oh." He scrunched up his nose. "That would explain the disgusting smell. Honestly, can't you find a better scented drug?"

"There's always cocaine." Kanda blew smoke out his nose slowly. "But that fucks you up too badly."

"Interesting." It made Allen somewhat disappointed that the only way he could have a decent conversation with the older teen was related to drugs, something that he pretty much disapproved of. "And how do you know?"

"It's on the news, plastered on the newspapers. Try reading one, you'll learn some kickass shit."

"I don't really want to. Even though the cold war is ending, it's still big enough news for the papers to ignore other topics." He rested his chin on his forearms, gazing down. "And why do you choose to get high on a high school campus, anyway? Aren't there, oh, _rules_?"

"I punched a teacher. In the _face_." Kanda snorted. "Yeah, I'm one _hell_ of a model student."

"You have to admit, you're such a great idol that the vice principal is looking for you. He might be trying to award you for most shirty git in Hampton High." Allen grinned.

"Award me with a few suspensions and detention 'till I fucking graduate, maybe." The guitarist spoke around the joint. "That'd be ace." He looked up, face scowling further. "I'm sick of talking to you while having to look up at your stupid face."

"So, what?" The younger boy retorted. "You want me to come down _there_ so you can look at my stupid face?"

"Better than what you're making me go through now."

Allen glared, frowning. "And why should I? I _do_ have to go to class, skiver."

"It was your own fucking suggestion, so don't get snippy with me, brat." He looked forward, arms crossed.

"Hmph." The white-haired boy huffed, opening the window higher. He climbed up, sticking a leg out. "Budge up, jerk."

"What?"

Kanda almost spat out his bud as Allen hopped out the window, falling onto his midsection.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" he hissed, wincing. "Your vans just kicked my shoulder!"

Allen groaned, sitting up straight. "I told you to move!" he replied heatedly.

"You said budge up! What the fuck is 'budge up'?!"

"To _move over_! Ugh! Your stomach is hard as a bloody tank!"

"Surprise, but I actually _work out_, dweeb!"

The British boy roughly rolled off of the older teen, choosing to sit at least twelve inches away from him. "Smarmy git," he grumbled. "I hope you get caught."

Kanda blew smoke in his direction. "And you'll get caught with me, kid," he replied. "No one told you to hang out during class."

Allen winced. He was skipping class in favor of sitting on the side of the school with the biggest jerk he'd ever known. "Sod off," he answered instead.

"Whatev'." The Japanese teenager looked suddenly disturbed. "Wait, you didn't want a drag, did you?"

The white-haired boy was horrified. "Please, play in traffic in the dark."

"I wasn't offering anyway."

* * *

February 27th, 1985.

"Did pimple-face ever catch you?" Lavi asked from underneath his bass drum. "'Cause he was tearing the school up looking for you. Almost called a search squad and all that jazz."

Kanda rolled his eyes. "The VP's an idiot," he replied. "I was just hiding out on the side, dragging a joint."

"I know that. Al told me." The redhead tapped the pedal until he was satisfied with the sound. "I could smell Mary all over him. How close _were_ you guys sitting, huh?"

"Too close," the Japanese teen grumbled. "He smells like gay tea or something."

"Whoa, what the hell are you talking about? Gay tea?"

"Gay tea. Tea that is homosexual." Kanda huffed. "I'm not breaking it down anymore than that."

"…Wow." Lavi scratched his chin. "When'll Al and Lena' be back anyway?"

"I have no fucking idea. I don't even know where the hell they _went_."

And, as though Kanda had the supernatural properties of speaking to the devil, the garage door creaked open. Lenalee skipped in joyously, a gleeful smile on her face, while Allen and Komui walked in considerably more sullen, boxes and bags in their arms.

"How _boss_!" she cried happily. "Lavi, check out what I got!" She thrust a thin magazine towards the redhead, who poked his head over the tom drums.

He took the magazine with a skeptical expression. "What's this?" he asked. "_Seventeen_ magazine?"

"It's got an interview with the lead singer of _Noah's Ark_!" She almost squealed in absolute joy. "He's _so_ hot!"

Komui was scowling. "That _man_ looks like a total sleaze!" he whined. "Can't you have a teenage-girl-crush on someone much more sensible? Like, I don't know, _nobody_?"

"That goes against the rules of feminism," Allen explained weakly. "She must have a crush on an older man, or she'll explode. At least, that's what the magazine said."

Kanda snorted. "Funny how a fifteen-year-old boy is reading magazines for teenaged girls. Got something you'd like to tell us before we figure out why you _really_ haven't hit puberty?"

"If I could push you into traffic…" the white-haired boy muttered, resisting the urge to toss the boxes in his arms at the older teenager. Komui wiped a tear from his eye.

"I can't believe you're growing up…" he complained, taking his share of the boxes into the house. "You're only seventeen!"

The Chinese girl sighed dreamily. "Isn't he just choice, Lavi?" she purred.

"Uhhh…" the redhead replied, staring at the picture. "He's kind of creepy. Especially that _smile_. Jesus, it's burning my soul just looking at it with _one eye_."

"Creepy?!" She snatched the magazine back. "You clearly don't understand the charm he has within the tight clothes and the wavy hair and those _gorgeous_ eyes and his _amazing_ smirk. Oh!" Lenalee hugged the magazine close to her chest.

"So he's hot?" Lavi huffed. "He's still creepy as fuck. But, yeah, he does have gorgeous eyes."

"His eyes kind of freak me the fuck out," Kanda commented, plucking the magazine from the younger girl's hands. He flipped through the pages with a critical eye. "I'm gonna go with his skin tone. It's unique."

"His skin? Too dark." Lavi replied, waving a hand in dismissal.

"But it sets him out in the crowd."

"With _Noah's Ark_, every band member is dark-skinned. They've got two British dudes who're darker than coffee."

"They get noticed easily because of shit like that." Kanda argued, arms crossed. "Plus the fact that the lead singer is a teenaged girl's wet dream with his creepy-as-fuck but sensual voice, it's no wonder they're making so far in such a short time."

Allen was thoroughly confused. "Why are you so focused on the leader singer of _Noah's Ark_, anyway?"

"Because," Kanda pushed the magazine at him. "You've got to pay attention to shit like that. You won't make it a mile if you can't even notice the signs."

The British boy cocked an eyebrow at the decidedly _wrongness_ of Kanda's analogy, but he did not comment. Instead, he carefully put the boxes on the ground and opened the magazine, flipping to whatever page focused on the lead singer of _Noah's Ark_.

"Is this the bloke?" he asked, showing Lenalee.

She nodded. "Tyki Mikk!" she exclaimed, blushing. "He's amazing!"

Allen looked at the glossy photograph of the deeply tanned man that looked up at him with narrowed amber eyes. "He…he disturbs me," he admitted, still staring at the picture. "There's something _not right_ about him."

"His eternal sexiness, maybe."

He would not disagree, because it was clear that Lenalee was totally enraptured with this man. "Why are you so hung up about a rival band and their singer?"

"Because it's _Tyki Mikk_. And we'll be opening for _Noah's Ark_, which means that we might actually meet the band!"

She didn't exactly answer his question, but that was okay. He handed her back the magazine. "We should stay stuck on our _own_ music and band members," he replied with a smile. "After all, I'm sure _Noah's Ark_ is good…but why can't we be better?"

Lenalee gasped. "Now that I think about it!" she murmured, randomly grabbing a long box from pile. She opened it, showing the other members the contents. "What do you think?"

Kanda frowned. "I think you're gonna be tripping down stairs and shit," he commented.

"How the fuck are you going to even walk in those things?" Lavi demanded, scratching his bandana. "Looks like the kind of shit we could use to be striking oil and shit."

"I can't say, since those heels are at least six inches tall and a centimeter wide." Allen said. "If anything, I'd hope you weigh as much as you look, which isn't a lot."

"Yeah, you weigh as much as you fucking eat, but you look like a preteen girl." The Japanese teenager muttered.

"Thanks Kanda." The Chinese girl replied in an irritated tone.

"What? No! I was talking to the brat!"

"Oh? Then let me try, with feeling. _Thanks Kanda_." Allen replied with an irked smile.

"Fuck you."

Lenalee huffed, pulling out the high-heeled boots. They were a gleaming black with long zippers from the toe to the top of the boots.

"I got them from Hevlaska!" she explained excitedly.

Lavi winced. "You mean that gender-twist chick? Dude? What_ever_ the hell it is?"

"Whatev', Hevlaska has the best shoes anyway." She showed them off.

Kanda shook his head. "You're still gonna be tripping down stairs and falling down sidewalks in those fucking deathtraps."

"Aww, that's what Komui said! Allen was too busy reading porno to help me out."

Allen sputtered. "Don't put me on the same level as Cross! I was reading a newspaper! A newspaper!"

"With the front cover being a naked woman?"

"That was Soviet propaganda for the use of nuclear weapons!"

Lavi nudged him. "Its okay, Brit," he said happily. "I read porn too. Sometimes. Well, no, I don't. Sorry, I was trying to make you feel better."

"Ugh. Thanks."

* * *

OMFG NOW WE ARE THE HELL OUT OF FEBRUARY. YES. :D

This chapter was beta'd by Kyuubi-nii of KISproductions. Fuckin' a, isn't it?

Super Special Props To: Bitchmuffin, she knows what she did. :DDD And to TheAngelIsrafel for the idea of Kanda ditching class and Allen catching him.

And I hope I did somewhat well with the constantly switching dialects in this chapter. D:

The Kanda/Allen was much more apparent here than in any other chapter. You must understand, for I cannot imagine a relationship or friendship in which they are calm, non-arguing buddies. Which is why their convos are usually nothing but senseless arguments.

And, here are the pairings that are important, the ones that you _will_ see, regardless of whatever happens: Kanda/Allen, Lavi/Allen, and very small instances of Tyki/Allen. It's, like, nonexistent and IN THE NEXT CHAPTER FUCK YEAH TYKI. There is no Kanda/Lenalee. That was a joke, a _joke_.

/can't wait to write

In the next chapter, the drama actually occurs. Yay. Tyki.

(And, lol, a few days ago, when I told Emiggax I updated, she was all "YAY" and then I continued with "I updated The Incredible You" and she was all "oh. uh. yay?" Shows which fic is more important to her.)


	13. Flirting with Disaster

_THIRTEEN_

March 9th, 1985.

"Drive faster, Yuu!" Lavi exclaimed, head poking into the front part of the van. "We've got, like, thirty minutes to get there!"

Kanda growled, his hands clenched on the steering wheel. "You say _one more_ fucking word," he snapped, looking away from the road to glare back at the annoyance.

Lenalee yelped. "Keep your eyes on the street, deadbeat!" she yelled, pushing Kanda's face forward.

"Hey! I know what the hell I'm doing!"

Allen paled whiter than usual, gaping. "You're about to crash into a bloody pole!" he cried, a hand on Lavi's face. "Turn, _turn_ you idiot!"

"If you would all stop backseat-fucking-driving," Kanda grounded out from a clenched jaw. "Then maybe I won't be forced to swerve this goddamn van off the fucking road." He pointed forward at the expanse of concrete. "You see that bridge?"

"There _is_ no bridge!" the British boy snapped. "Have you finally gone barmy, prick?"

"I'll make a fucking bridge for us to fall off of. _Try me_."

Lavi jostled the older teen's seat. "Faster!"

Many pedestrians screamed in horror as the gray van suddenly made a detour towards the sidewalk.

Lenalee shrieked. "Are you _juiced_?" she demanded hotly. "You're driving like a maniac!"

"You're bloody insane!" Allen agreed, terrified.

"Kick _ass_, do it again!" the redhead crowed.

Kanda felt a headache coming on. "Shut the fuck up!" he roared, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt halfway on the sidewalk. He turned around so that he would be able to address everyone in the van. "If you don't want me to get arrested, then keep all your damn mouths shut! Cyclops, shut the fuck up. I fucking mean it. Lenalee, I know what the fuck I'm doing. Brat, you aren't even old enough for a fucking learner's permit, so stop with the backseat-driving, kid."

With that, he turned back towards the front and began driving again, his knuckles white with the grip on the wheel.

There was silence in the van for ten minutes straight.

Lavi coughed into his fist. "Uhm…"

"What?" Kanda snapped, almost ripping the steering wheel off the axle.

"Whoa, chill the fuck _out_." The redhead huffed. "Just making sure you know the Five-0 are tailing us right about…_now_."

"God_damn_."

"Pedal to the metal, baby!"

* * *

"We're splitting up this ticket."

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "But, I'm too young for even a learner's permit," he replied mockingly.

"And you knew what you were doing." Lenalee said with a smile.

Lavi's arms were crossed. "I was just warning you, hoser," he chipped in. "No one said 'Pull a sixty on the cops'!"

Kanda narrowed his eyes in a sinister manner. "We're _splitting up this ticket_," he growled quietly. "Three-fucking-_hundred_ dollars?" He smirked. "Hell yeah, we're all in this together."

Many protests were on the lips of the other band members, but the oldest of them clearly didn't care as he pulled to a stop in front of _Time_.

Allen blinked. "It's really packed today, isn't it?" he commented, amazed.

"It's because of _Noah's Ark_," Lenalee explained, pressing her face to the glass. "They sure as hell aren't here to see us, fer sure."

The three boys gave her a somewhat betrayed look, which she shrugged off with practiced ease. "And that's why we're here!" she followed up cheerfully. "So we can let them know who we are and what we do!"

"I thought it's because you wanted to meet the creep Tyki Mikk up close," Kanda replied dubiously.

Lenalee laughed unconvincingly. "Of _course_ not!" She smacked him on his black clothed shoulder. "But…it's a big time plus."

"You ain't fooling _anyone_," Lavi muttered. Allen nodded in agreement.

The Chinese girl huffed. "You guys suck." She opened the metal door, hopping out the van in her favorite pair of high heels. "C'mon, let's go meet up with Miss Anita and Miss Miranda. They're excited!"

Lavi kicked open the back, Mugen's guitar case strap around his shoulder. "Fuckin' A," he gasped, staring at the mere _line_ of people in front of the club. "They're all the way on 3rd block, fer cear!"

"Tough competition, then?" the white-haired boy asked. "It'll be a hard hit, won't it?"

"Nah. We'll do so well that we'll leave them bawlin' for more. It'll be clutch, Brit, so don't worry." The older teen nudged him with a smile. "I'll be here, and we won't screw up."

Kanda kicked his door closed, locking it. "Of course we won't fuck up," he agreed in his usual angry tone of voice. "_Black_ _Order_. It sounds way ace than _Noah's Ark_."

"I'm getting the feeling that you're getting excited for the wrong reasons," Allen said, smiling in amusement. He hated to admit it, but the older teenager was probably the most hilarious person he'd ever known.

"And _I'm_ getting the feeling that someone needs to shut the fuck up. _You_."

Lenalee rolled her eyes. "Can we deck it out _after_ Tyk—I mean, our show?" she jabbed a thumb towards the bright club. "Mahoja's been staring at us for five minutes."

Lavi winced. "I knew I felt dirty," he mumbled, rubbing his arms for comfort. Allen elbowed him, shaking his head. The redhead just tipped his chin and smirked, looping his arm in with the younger boy's.

"Let's jet, baby," he said happily.

Allen sighed. "Don't call me baby. It's disturbing."

Kanda shoved Lavi in an almost playful manner, had it not been _Kanda_. "Quit fooling around," he said, annoyed and shouldering Mugen's case. "Let's get into the damn building _first_, and then you can get gay all you want."

"Hot." Lavi pulled Allen along with a gleeful smile, stopping in front of Mahoja carefully. "How's it hanging, Miss 'Hoja?" The white-haired boy looked incredulous, wondering what in the hell the older teenager was attempting.

The bald woman looked suspicious. "What're you playin' at, Red?"

"Just saying hey, miss!" the one-eyed teenager assured, grinning. "Trying to make sure we're still cool."

"You mean after you called me a man?"

He faltered. "Err…_yeah_."

Mahoja snorted, rolling her eyes. "I still have half a mind to beat the shit outta you for that," she admitted, waving a hand in dismissal. "But, we're clutch. Your performance made it worth it." The woman playfully punched Lavi on the shoulder, and pushed him through the door roughly, causing Allen to follow. "Make some music, Red."

"Ha ha, yeah." Lavi smiled harder. "Yeah."

The moment she turned around, the redhead let out a strangled sob.

"I…I think she knocked my collarbone out of place," he whimpered.

Allen rolled his grey eyes, patting the abused shoulder. "You're being a whiny prat," he said, walking towards Lenalee and Kanda, who stood with the one of the two owners of the club. "I bet it wasn't even that hard."

Lavi furrowed his eyebrows. "Yeah, you only say that since it wasn't you who just got moded. _Shit_ that hurts!" A tear leaked from his one eye.

"Took you two long enough," Lenalee commented with a raised eyebrow. "What're you crying about, Lavi?"

"He decided to see if he could patch things up with Miss Mahoja, and she punched him in the shoulder."

Anita winced. "Ah. Sorry, baby." She patted him on the cheek.

The redhead gasped, rolling his shoulder. "Well, damn sam, I'm just fine!" he said. He waggled his eyebrows at the older Asian woman, smirking. "Must've been your touch. Gotta say, I'm not too surprised that a bodacious woman like yourself can heal broken bones with a single pat like that."

"If I could really explain how much shit comes out your mouth on a daily basis…I don't even think I could." Kanda grumbled, arms crossed.

"Oh, Kanda must want a hug!" Anita exclaimed, arms wide. "C'mon Andy, I've got one just for you."

"I've never pushed a woman down the stairs, much less an older one. Doesn't mean I won't start."

Lenalee kicked his leg. "You are _such_ a dick, Kanda!" she scolded. The younger girl flicked him on the forehead as he clenched his teeth in pain. "And don't give me that face!"

Kanda looked incredulous. "You kick me in my fucking leg and I can't even look like I'm in fucking _pain_? Where's the fucking logic in that?"

"You're a prick," Allen supplied helpfully. "Normal logic doesn't apply to you."

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, I want to kick your ass."

Miranda, looking just as distressed as their first meeting, trotted up. "Anita!" she gasped, wavy hair in disarray. "_Noah's Ark_ has just arrived! They're coming through the back, so you can greet them there."

The tall woman blinked in surprise. "Well, they're really late. Take care of these kids while I go get them ready."

The pale woman nodded. Anita smiled at the group of four, patting Kanda on the head before walking briskly through the crowd towards the back of the stage.

"How the fuck did she get 'Andy' out of Kanda?" the Japanese guitarist demanded suddenly, scowling.

"Lightning Reflex strikes again," Lavi commented with a grin, still arm in arm with Allen, who snorted in amusement.

Miranda rubbed her arm nervously. "W-well, uhm, hi," she greeted in a slight stutter. "If you don't really remember me, I'm Miranda Lotto." She smiled shakily. "I love your music, and Anita told me you guys d-did great those weeks ago, which I apologize for missing."

"It's okay. Now you can see us at not even our best, because we're only getting better!" Lenalee smiled brightly, hooking her arm with Kanda, who looked vaguely uncomfortable. "We, the _Black Order_, are only here to rock this world."

"Fly speech, Lenalady," Lavi said with a smirk. "But…what's the point?"

Allen laughed. "So we can show her what we're good for, of course. It's most definitely not seemly to be all bark and no bite."

"Like Yuu?" Kanda punched the green-eyed teen on the shoulder. "Jesus_ fuckin' _Christ that hurt!"

"It was supposed to, dickweed." The long-haired man flexed his fingers. "I'm getting bored. When're we going?"

"Erm…you guys think you can handle going up now?" the dark-haired woman asked, face hopeful.

"Most definitely!"

"T-then—"

A high electronic screech erupted from the speakers about the club, causing every person in the club to look towards the stage, stopping whatever they were doing previously.

Anita, with a sheepish smile, waved. "Hi!" she greeted cheerfully. "I'm Anita, co-owner of this mad club! Other owner is Miranda, but you'll she her a little later." She winked at the woman who stood with the band of teenagers. "Tonight we've got a great schedule for your listening pleasures—"

There was an eruption of cheers at that, with the majority of the noisemakers being teenaged girls, Lenalee included.

"—Right, like I was saying," the Asian woman continued, amused. "We've got the primo new band that's hopping the charts like jumping rope, _Noah's Ark_!"

More screams from teenaged girls and a considerable amount from teenaged boys as well.

"As well as newbie band with more sound than you can even handle to hear, the _Black Order_!"

There was scattered applause, most of which stemmed from the older group of people that witnessed their performance the first time.

"And after that, we've got freebase music from the DJ." Anita coughed into her fist, face grimacing in pain for a split-second. She grinned. "Ready for it?"

The applause was deafening. Lavi cheered loudly, jumping onto Kanda's shoulders for leverage over the large crowd, only to be harshly rejected with the Japanese teen practically throwing him off. Allen and Lenalee stood next to each other, laughing as the redhead whined soundlessly, getting off the ground shakily.

Miranda tapped Allen's shoulder. "You guys have to go to the back now," she whispered loudly in his ear.

He nodded, nudging Lenalee. "It's time to show!"

* * *

Anita smiled at the band. "Make it mint, guys!" she encouraged, patting Kanda on the top of his head.

"Why do you always fuck with _me_ first?" the oldest teen asked angrily.

"Because you need an attitude adjustment, Andy." She pinched his cheeks, reveling in the angry scowl she received. "And you're lots of fun to screw with. Now, I've got to go check with _Noah's Ark_ again. See you after the show!"

Kanda rubbed his cheek, baring his teeth. "I will _get her_, I swear to fucking god I will."

Allen opened his mouth to tell him off for even threatening a woman, but paused as he felt a hard stare. Turning around, he blinked in surprise as amber eyes gazed at him with no shame.

The tall wavy-haired man with said eyes smirked, running the gaze down the grey-eyed boy's body.

Allen suddenly felt _very_ nervous.

"Al, c'mon!" Lavi called, waving him over to the stage.

The fifteen-year-old jumped in surprise, snapping out of his trance. "Er, coming!"

Lenalee was already at the front microphone, tweaking it to fit her height. Kanda stood next to her, plugging Mugen into the amplifier, and still rubbing his cheek as though he were touched by Satan himself. Allen walked to the synthesizer, and gulped. His usual synth was a single, long keyboard with the various knobs and keys all along it. This one, on the other hand, was split into two separate keyboards, with all the controls scattered about it.

"I didn't know they were using _these_ kinds of synths," he said quietly. Lavi looked over at the electronic keyboards.

"You're not used to the kinds with the double keyboards?" he asked.

"Not really." The British boy sighed. "But, let's think of it as an experience. The levers _look_ familiar enough."

"Don't worry, man." Lavi said with a smile. "I've got your back. Just do your best, and it'll be amped!"

Allen nodded, standing in the area where the two keyboards came together. "I'll be counting on it."

Lenalee motioned for them to get ready. "_Testing…testing one, two, and three_," she sang onto the microphone. Satisfied, she waved at the crowd, excited. "How're you all doing tonight?"

Cheers cried out from the congregation of club-goers.

"Nice!" The Chinese singer gave them a thumb up. "I'm Lenalee of the _Black Order. _How many of you know who the hell we are?"

There were a few murmurs among the crowd, further back towards the bar.

"Okay…and how many know who the hell _Noah's Ark_ is?"

"Dear god, Lenalee…" Allen murmured, shaking his head.

The screams made Kanda scowl. "Make them shut up," he hissed to Lenalee. "They're being too goddamn loud. I'm getting a headache."

"Okay, okay," she said as they calmed down. "So, who think they're Tyki Mikk's biggest fan?"

"What?" Kanda demanded. "What the fuck are you _on_?"

Many teenaged girls shrieked their answers in glee. Lenalee laughed, waving her hand dismissively.

"As _if_. I think I am too, but hey, he's gorgeous, is he not?" The majority of the screams clearly agreed. "All right, so who would have sex with Kanda over here, the icy guitarist for the _Black Order_?"

"Oh _hell_ no—"

"Allen would!" Lavi cried, warranting a mortified look from the younger teen.

According to the screams, clearly most of the congregation of teenaged girls would've loved to have sex with Kanda. The expression on his face was one of horror.

"Looks like you're pretty popular already, Kanda!" Lenalee said cheerfully, patting his shoulder.

"Don't _even_."

"And we've also got the drummer, Lavi. Who would bang him?" she continued.

"Allen." Kanda muttered.

"What the bloody _hell_?" Allen demanded. "Why _me_?"

The screams were even giving Lenalee a headache. She grimaced for a moment.

"Okay, now, what about Allen, our synth?"

"I'm not even _legal_!" he grumbled, hiding his face underneath his gloved hand as the screams carried on. "This is _so_ embarrassing."

"Okay, no more screaming." The singer shook her head. Once it quieted down enough, she smirked. "Now, we'll start _singing_." She waved at Lavi, who nodded.

A steady beat sounded from the drums, the one-eyed eighteen-year-old tapping his foot in time. He hit the toms twice, and looked at Allen expectantly.

The white-haired boy felt a nervous knot in his stomach, and carefully played the keys on the synthesizer. Kanda strummed the guitar the moment he began playing the synth, and Lenalee swayed to the music with a smile.

"_Inside…_" she sang. "_Everyone hides one desire. Outside…no one will know…  
Danger…closer to the edge of the knife! Safer…not to let go  
And while we miss chances, you can almost hear time slippin' away—_" she lifted her voice.  
"_We close our eyes! We never lose a game  
Imagination never lets. us. take. the blame!  
We close our eyes! To see the final frame  
We close our eyes to time slippin' away…_"

The instruments carried on for a few more seconds, and Lenalee continued.

"_No show…Wednesday boy waits with the wine…  
He knows…just what to say…but no one listens—  
You can almost hear time slippin' away!  
We close our eyes! We never lose a game  
Imagination never lets. us. take. the. blame!  
We close our eyes to see the final frame  
We close our eyes to time slippin' away  
—And we can talk to strangers!  
We are burnin' with the spark!  
And we can walk on water…we are tigers in the dark!  
We are burning…_"

She smiled as she took in a deep breath. "_Heroes…never give into the night…  
He knows…how far he can run! And as he surrenders—  
You can almost hear time slippin' away!_"

* * *

"That was the _Black Order_, everyone," Miranda said onto the microphone nervously, a few songs later. The crowd cheered loudly, clapping and roars of approval sounding throughout the club.

Backstage, Lenalee hugged Allen in happiness. "They're cheering _that_ loudly!" she squealed. "They really liked us!"

Lavi joined in on the hug. "Hell, I'm part of the band, and even _I_ really liked us!" he said cheerfully.

"C'mon Kanda! Join in the band hug!" the seventeen-year-old girl called.

Kanda scowled. "Go fall off a fucking cliff."

"'Ey, not very cheery to yer chumps, are ya?" an amused, young tenor asked, making the others look towards the voice.

A dark-skinned, handsome young man, dressed in tight leather pants laced with fishnet, a loose white shirt, and an overly large coat with a furred hood, held up a hand in greeting. "_Black Order_, huh?" he mused. "Yippy pack o' septics, ain't'cha?"

Allen laughed. "Oh, I'm not American," he assured. "I'm from London."

The other blinked. "'Ey!" he exclaimed with a grin. "You're a Brit!"

"Jesus, you're a fucking moron, aren't you?" Kanda muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be a smartarse." He turned around. "Jazzy! The band before us, they've got a funny-lookin' Brit!"

Another dark-skinned young man walked up, his hands wrapped in bandages and dressed in tight leather pants and an unbuttoned fur collared vest. He flipped his long blond hair away from his eyes.

"Ah?" he mumbled slowly. He stared at the group, who stared back at him. "Dodgy lot, I've gotta say."

Lenalee blinked in thought. "Aren't you guys in _Noah's Ark_?" she asked.

"Whot tipped ya off? The skin?" The black-haired one laughed as though there were some hilarious personal joke in there.

The blond one laughed as well. "Stop it wit' that!" he scolded in amusement. "Skin'll have yer hide if ya keep crackin' those funnies!"

Lavi coughed into his fist. "How do you…you know…_talk_?" he asked, motioning towards his lips. The other man furrowed his eyebrows in offense, making the redhead hold up his hands in well-meaning. "The way you guys talk is fucking _awesome_, but…there's, like, _thread_ between your lips."

"Oh. Oh this?" The blond pulled at a gray string. "Whot's this, Davie?"

"Les' just say a _fashion statement_," the first dark-skinned man said, smirking.

The other smirked back. "I'll go wit' that." He turned back to Lavi. "It's a _fashion statement_."

Lavi laughed nervously. He leaned closer to Allen. "I think I like your British better," he whispered.

"Where the Brit?" the one called 'Jazzy' asked.

"Little white-topped runt." 'Davie' answered, pointing at Allen. He cocked an eyebrow at Kanda, who was looking surlier than before. "Whot's got yer goolies twisted?"

"Who the fuck _are_ you people?"

"Who're _we_?" 'Davie' glared back. "Got a dirty mouth on that, dontcha?"

"Bag your face, koozbane."

"Hmph." He shrugged his jacket closer to himself, only for it to fall off his shoulders like before. "I'm David," he said cockily. "And this's my twin, Jasdero."

"All right?" Jasdero greeted.

A young dark-skinned girl with black spiked hair came from behind the two brothers. "We've got to get on stage," she said in an irritated tone, shoving them both roughly. "Quit chatting it up with _these_ losers."

David grinned at Allen. "I'd chat you up, like the missus says, but—"

"It's okay, I'm not interested." The boy said quickly, smiling.

"And Bob's your uncle!" the dark-skinned man laughed. "Awright then, no more faffing about. C'mon Jazzy, we're up. Chivvy along now."

"I'm right behind you, Davie."

The three walked onstage, leaving the band of four to mull over whatever just happened.

"What the fuck is a _septic_?" Lavi asked suddenly, looking at Allen.

"An American. It isn't meant to be offensive, I promise!"

Lenalee gasped. "If they just went onstage…then _Tyki_'ll be going on stage soon!" she grabbed Kanda's hand, pulling him with her as she rushed off stage. "We have to get good spots!"

"Why the fuck are you _dragging_ me around?"

Lavi nudged Allen. "Let's go watch _Noah's Ark_. I wanna see what's so good about them." And with that, he walked in the same direction of his other two friends.

Allen followed him, turning the corner that led to the stairs that went offstage.

He bumped into a taller figure. "My apologies," he muttered out of reflex, looking up.

Amber eyes gazed back at him. "Not a problem," he purred in his deep, melodic voice. "Not a problem at _all_."

Familiar? Allen could think nothing but yes.

"Do I _know_ you?"

"You will." He smirked. "I'll make sure." The tall man continued walking towards the stage, leaving the white-haired boy standing still over the stairs.

Allen blinked. What the bloody hell just happened?

* * *

Lenalee waved at him from her spot in the crowd, deciding to stand about five feet from the actual stage. "Tyki Mikk is coming!" she gushed, grinning happily. "I can't believe I'm going to see Tyki Mikk _up close_! I mean, I tried to get the 411 backstage, but I just couldn't find him, so yeah."

Allen thought about it. "You mean that creepy bloke?" If that was the case, then the possibility of the man backstage being this Tyki Mikk was unreasonably high.

"Fine, _yes_, the 'creepy bloke'," she mimicked, crossing her arms. "He's still sexy."

Lavi nudged her. "He's coming onstage!" he whispered in her ear, making her immediately snap to attention.

The tall, dark-skinned man clad in leather pants and a fitted black shirt with a suit jacket walked up to the microphone. It _was_ the same bloke as before. "Good evening," he greeted in his low, toned voice. There was a beauty spot underneath his left eye on his handsome face. "I'm Tyki of _Noah's Ark_."

"God Blimey," Allen muttered, hitting his forehead and dragging the hand down in a show of annoyance as the crowd screamed wildly.

Kanda paused. "This guy is suspicious as _fuck_."

The British boy agreed silently.

"I'd like to give props to the excellent band, _Black Order_, for their choice performance," Tyki continued. He smiled. "We're pretty glad we get to play after them."

Lenalee bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from screaming too hard.

"With that, you should already know who our members are…but in case not," he turned around. "We've got Rhode Camelot on electric guitar," he pointed at the young, spiky-haired girl from the backstage, who smirked while popping a pink bubble of gum. "And Lulu Bell for bass," a tall, long-haired woman of incredible beauty stared forward while silent. "As well as Skin Boric on drums," a large, dark-skinned man sat behind the trap set, crunching loudly and obnoxiously on some sort of hard candy. "And lastly, Jasdavi on synthesizer." The twins waved in sync, grins on both their faces.

Allen huffed. "So they're the reason I had to use that bloody difficult synth?" he grumbled.

"Shut the fuck up. At least a bunch of girls didn't start screaming your name after the show, brat." Kanda snapped, arms crossed.

"Oh, is ickle Andy afraid of girls?" the white-haired boy taunted.

"Are you afraid of my foot up your ass? Then shut the fuck up." The older teen thought about it. "And don't call me 'Andy'."

"—and we're proud to let you guys, the elite crowd in _Time_, get a sound of a new song from us," Tyki was saying, a sinister smile on his thin lips. "I hope you like it."

Lenalee couldn't even help herself with her shriek of joy.

David immediately began playing several keys repeatedly, a wicked smile on his handsome face. Jasdero followed up with notes from his part of the double synthesizer, and Tyki leaned in closer.

"_Shout_," he sang, eyes open. The other instruments immediately began at this point, and he hooked a thumb in his left jean pocket. "_Shout! Let it all out! These are the things I can do without…  
Oh come on—I'm talking to you, come on!_" He looked down at the crowd, eyes searching for a specific person. He grinned as he finally caught sight of the white-haired boy, and he did not relent in staring.

"_In violent times…_" he breathed. "_You shouldn't have to sell your soul…  
In black and white…they really, really ought to know…  
Those one-track minds…that took you for a working boy…  
Kiss them goodbye_…" he pressed his lips to the microphone. "_You shouldn't have to shout for joy…_"

Lavi gaped. "Holy shit, I think he's staring at you."

Allen frowned. "No, he's blatantly looking at some fan. I _am_ surrounded by them, you know."

"He's looking _dead_ at you, Al! You can't deny this shit!"

Kanda snorted. "Cyclops isn't lying brat. Look, I'll show you." He shoved Allen roughly, making the boy stumble farther away.

"What the bloody hell—"

"His eyes are following you, man." The redhead explained, pointing up at the dark-skinned singer. Surely enough, the man's eerie eyes were following the fifteen-year-old as he moved.

Lenalee huffed. "Unfair!" She patted Allen's shoulder. "Let me stand in front of you, just to see if he looks at me instead!"

"Oh, uh—"

She did it anyway, a smile on her face. "Is he looking at me yet?" she asked Lavi, who shook his head.

"Still eyeballin' Brit Boy. Jesus fuckin' Christ he's creeping me out, and I'm not even the bunk he's staring at."

"Damn!" she moved from in front of Allen, who looked distressed.

"Why is he staring at _me_?" he asked, trying his hardest not to whine.

"Because you're cute? Hell if I know." Lavi frowned. "All I know is that I'm not getting a good vibe from this."

"_And when you've taken down your guard…_" Tyki was still singing, as well as staring. "_If I could change your mind…  
I'd really love to break your heart—  
I'd really love to break your heart!_" He held the note of the word for several more seconds.

And then he lightly ran his tongue over the microphone.

"What the _fuck_?" Kanda demanded immediately, eyes wide.

"You and me _both_, Yuu." Lavi said, shuddering with a look of disgust. "Most bogus part? He was _still_ staring right at Al."

Allen rubbed his arms. "Why do I feel so suddenly _dirty_?"

"I can't believe I sang on that mic…" Lenalee muttered, frowning. "Hmm…but does it count as an indirect kiss?"

"No. As long as he's been staring at Whitey?" the Japanese guitarist snorted. "You'd have to be mental to think he's interested."

"Oh." She sighed. "He's still hot."

"I need a _bath_." Allen complained. "His stare is making my skin crawl."

"You should say something to him about that," Lavi suggested. "Wait until after the show, though."

* * *

Allen had no idea why he was so dead-set on confronting Tyki Mikk for his unwavering stare, but he tried to not think about it as he walked by the other members of _Noah's Ark_ backstage, going straight for the lead singer.

"Mister Mikk," he called, trotting up.

Tyki looked at him in surprise, and he leered. "Please, call me Tyki," he said deeply.

"I'd rather not." Allen smiled back. "I was just wondering…were you staring at me that entire performance?"

"Oh, but of course." The tall man smirked proudly. "All four songs."

"I thought so." The fifteen-year-old let out a long-suffering sigh. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six." He smiled charmingly.

"Why stare at a fifteen-year-old boy?" Allen demanded, arms crossed.

"Because you're beautiful." Tyki shrugged with one shoulder, waving a dark hand. "I don't see the problem."

"Yes, well, I'd say you're attractive as well, but I didn't stare at _you_ the entire show—"

Tyki leaned closer to Allen, fingers gripping the boy's chin. "I didn't _say_ you were attractive," he purred. "I said you're _beautiful_." He pressed his lips to the younger boy's.

With the kiss, the British boy felt many alarms going off in his head. There was _no_ logical explanation for what the hell was happening at the moment. He goes to confront a creepy singer, and suddenly he's getting kissed by the very creep that would not stop the stare he had on him?

He couldn't even move, as he was so mortified.

Tyki's tongue, his _tongue_, was in his mouth, and the older man had his fingers tangled in Allen's thick white hair.

"So, do you think he succeeded in telling that creep to back the fuck—What the _fuck_?" Lavi exclaimed, green eye wide. Kanda, as a first, had no comment, for he could only stare.

The dark-skinned man looked up, smirking. "See something you like?" he purred, wrapping his arm around the white-haired boy's shoulder.

"Oh yeah…I'd _love_ to kick your creepy ass right about now," Lavi growled, stalking over to Tyki.

The taller man looked disinterested. "Really?" His hand shot out, grabbing the redhead by the chin. Leaning close, he narrowed his eyes as he looked over the eighteen-year-old. "You're pretty cute," he finally said. He forcefully turned Lavi's face to the side. "You could even be my type. But, you're a bit too brash." Tyki let go of the younger man's face, smiling. "Get an attitude adjustment, and then call me."

Lavi, rubbing his jaw, glared angrily while gritting his teeth. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he hissed.

"Me? I'm Tyki Mikk." The singer brought Allen closer to himself. "And I'm busy, so do me a favor and jet."

In a flash, a fist slammed into his cheek.

"You think you'se special?" Kanda asked lowly, a look of clear disgust on his face. A sort of accent began to peak through, but Allen couldn't accurately identify it at this time. He cracked his knuckles once. "I've seen dog shit with more goin' fo' it than ya, motherfucka'."

"Oooh…" Tyki moaned. He smirked. "Just like you, then?"

Suddenly Allen realized that Tyki Mikk was not only the most in demand newbie rock star of 1985, but also the most _suicidal_.

"Give me a few secs," the long-haired teenager said steadily, stretching his arms. "I'll pound your pretty face into _dust_."

Long fingers raked through the young boy's snowy fringe. "I'm sorry, I don't have the time," Tyki replied. "I'll pencil you in another day…but I want to spend a little more time with my _new friend_ here." Allen could not stop the look of horror that spend over his face.

Kanda's expression clouded in anger. "Fuck you," he snarled. Glaring at Allen, he turned around. "You're too fuckin' weak, brat." He walked away towards the other end.

Lavi worked his jaw, still scowling. "I'm going with Yuu," he muttered.

"Lavi—" Allen started, but was cut off immediately.

"I can't really talk it up with you right now, Al." The redhead sighed. "I just _can't_. Especially not while you're mashing with this…_prick_."

"No one's telling you to stay, Red." Tyki commented, observing his fingernails. He narrowed his eyes. "_Bounce_."

With an angry snarl, Lavi turned around and stalked after Kanda, still rubbing his jaw.

Allen rubbed his eyebrows. "Do you know what you just did?" he asked quietly.

"Give you the kiss of a lifetime?" the dark-skinned man replied with a smirk.

"Yes." He grabbed Tyki by his shirt collar with his left hand, pulling him down to his height. "There are first kisses, and then there's _you_. _You_ were not _supposed_ to take my first kiss!" Allen let out a distressed groan, letting go of his shirt. "And now Lavi's narked, with Kanda more aggro than _usual_. We were almost _friends_, Mikk!"

"Call me Tyki."

"I'll call you whatever the bloody hell I want, _Mikk_." The fifteen-year-old huffed. "Did you drive here by yourself?"

"Yes. What's up?" Tyki looked interested.

"You're driving me home." Of course, he somewhat considered the complications that came with letting a twenty-six-year-old creep find out where he lived. "I don't think I can handle riding with them right now."

"Too awkward?"

"Blatantly so."

Tyki smirked. "Anything for you, babe." He held out his hand.

Allen flinched. "Don't call me _babe_."

* * *

Long chapter is long. And gay. :D Tyki makes everything homo. And pedo, now that I _really_ think about it. D:

Lenalee's song? _We Close Our Eyes_ by Go West (third favorite 80s band)(also the title of last chapter lol). Tyki's song was _Shout_ by Tears for Fears (I chose it because it was creepy, vaguely talked about the world ending, and mentions breaking hearts. How effective!).

You might not believe this, but the chapter isn't nearly as rushed as you may believe. Even though all this shit occurred over the span on one day, the way it goes all depends on the eye of the beholder. And Lucky fans, whatever you saw between Tyki and Lavi is the most you'll get. I hope you liked it. :D It's dedicated personally to big Lucky fan Kyuubi-nii of KISproductions.

I really liked writing Tyki for some reason. D: Even though putting his creepiness into words was like pulling a Jesus and walking on water.

We told you all that the Tyki/Allen existed. Even though it's a lot more than you might've thought, but whatever. I know I probably pissed off a lot of people with this chapter, and I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

More awkward next chapter! :D Teenaged boys with communication issues, how gay!


	14. Here I Go Again

_FOURTEEN_

March 11th, 1985.

As though tuning itself to Allen's depression, his alarm clock helpfully forgot to set off that day. His secondary wake-up call, a growing yellow puppy named Timcanpy, licked him happily with his paws on his face.

Allen groaned. "Quit with that, Tim," he murmured. "I'd like a few more minutes."

That also was a failure.

Timcanpy was reasonably annoyed. He whined pitifully as he felt his stomach tighten in hunger. "A_rooo_," he keened, biting the red wrinkled arm of his young owner and tugging it.

"Ugh," the boy groaned, sitting up blearily. "What was the point of biting a numb arm? Honestly, Tim."

"Woof!" the puppy pawed his clothed chest.

Allen smiled, scratching behind the dog's folded ears. "What time is it anyway?" he asked Timcanpy drowsily, glancing at the analog clock on his black and white checkered nightstand.

He stared at it.

And then he panicked.

Timcanpy yelped in outrage as Allen practically threw him off of the black cover. "I'm sorry, boy!" the British boy called back, hopping over various hazardous items that littered his floor. "God _Blimey_! It's seven forty!" he cried, throwing open the bathroom door. "The bus comes in _fifteen minutes_! Why didn't you tell me, Tim?"

The dog barked in response, his tongue poking out his mouth.

"Not a good excuse." He stuck a toothbrush in his mouth. "You do it fo' yer bloody food!" he slurred, rapidly brushing his teeth. He spat in the sink, running the water to drain it out. "Just for that, I don't think I'll feed you—"

The sharp teeth were sinking into his ankle before he could even finish.

Allen almost tripped on the hardwood floor. "I was _kidding_!" he cried, hissing in pain. "Of course I'll feed you! I'm not _Cross_!"

Timcanpy immediately released him, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Woof!" he barked happily.

"Just, let me get dressed," and the young man ran into his room, slamming the door before the dog could follow.

The poor puppy felt cheated, and he didn't even know why.

* * *

Someone was at the door, knocking in that obnoxiously loud way that most people are prone to getting irritated over.

Of course, Allen could not process why the bloody hell _anyone_ would be knocking at _any_ door at almost _eight o'clock_ in the morning on a _Monday_, let alone obnoxiously.

Slipping on the first pair of shoes he could find without truly thinking, as they were an uncomfortable pair of boots, he hopped down the stairs, his yellow puppy literally on his heels.

The door was rattled again.

He answered it with an irritated "_Yes?_" His trademark smile was ever-present on his pale face. "May I help you?"

"Oh _yeah_." Tyki Mikk smiled down at him, an arm behind his back. Small, rectangular glasses were perched upon his straight nose. "Can I possibly take you out, like, a _date_?"

Allen was shocked. "How the bloody hell did you find me?" he demanded, distressed. "I made you drop me off at a house a block away, for certain _reasons_!"

"What am I, an _idiot_?" Tyki sniffed, offended. "I saw you walk into this house instead, _doy_."

"And _I_ saw you _drive away_! You were, I don't know, _not there_! You couldn't have seen me!"

"So I followed you. Don't be so surprised."

The gloved hand gripped the door so tightly, the wood began to splinter. "Listen, Mikk," Allen began, his patience running thin.

"Call me Tyki." The dark-skinned man leered. Timcanpy watched him warily.

"_Mikk_." Allen sighed wearily. "I'm, _Lord_, I'm _fifteen_. You are over_ twenty_. I think that maybe your…persistence…is a little illegal."

"Rules were meant to be broken." Tyki held out a small bouquet of red roses from behind himself. "Especially when you're in love."

The white-haired boy's shoulders slumped in defeat. Now he felt kind of bad, as he received the flowers with an irked smile. "Err, thank you?"

"No problem." Tyki leaned against the doorway, close to Allen. "Now, how about that date?"

"I can't. I have to go to—_shite_, I have to go to school!" He pulled a distressed face. "Look, Mikk, I'm sorry, but I have to catch the bus. You may make your living off singing, but I make mine by getting an education." That's what Cross said, at least. It was followed up by various slurred curses and profane terms relating to what would happen to him if he didn't complete high school with the best grades possible, and Allen takes Cross very seriously.

"The bus?" the wavy-haired man repeated. He grinned. "You mean that bogus-looking rag metal tanker that just drove off?" He jabbed a thumb in the direction of a quickly departing yellow school bus.

Allen watched it go, gaping. "Ugh!" he groaned, hitting his head lightly on the door. "Now I have no way to get to school!"

"C'mon baby," Tyki chided, placing a hand on the younger boy's head. "Chill out. I can give you a ride."

Allen thought he learned his lesson of never catching a ride with Tyki Mikk ever again, by allowing the man to drive him home last night with all the inappropriate touching and rubbing and whatnot. But, he had no choice, since the public transit wasn't going to stop near him until ten o'clock or so.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me," he finally said, opening the door completely. "I will knock you a new one if you do."

"_Ah, você é atrativo._" Tyki replied in Portuguese, smiling. "_Eu não posso ajudar-se._ So, yeah, I'm sorry about that."

The boy was suspicious. "What did you say, exactly?"

"That we should be getting to your school, because I'm a great person for giving you a ride," the older man lied smoothly, grinning.

The small yellow puppy at Allen's heels suddenly launched at Tyki, mouth open and teeth as sharp as ever.

The singer simply moved away, lifting up his leg. "Nice try, pooch," he said in a condescending tone.

Timcanpy turned around and growled, body tense.

"Oh, Tim doesn't like that." Allen replied happily. "He's an excellent judge of character, actually." He owed the puppy an _entire_ box of trail mix snacks. But, they'd have to share, of course.

"I'm sure." Tyki checked his watch. "When does school start?" he asked, eyebrow cocked. "Shouldn't we jet or something?"

"Oh. Right, come in, Tim." Allen sighed, grabbing his knapsack from the coat hanger next to the door. The dog walked inside, golden eyes still on the dark-skinned man. A gloved hand ruffled his ears, placing the flowers on the ground. "Lead the way, Mikk."

"Please, call me Tyki."

It felt like the man wasn't ever going to get a hint.

* * *

"Yuu, answer me this," Lavi drawled, hands behind his head as he waited in front of the school on the steps. "Did I do the right thing Saturday night? Y'know, with kinda ditching Al with that creep?"

"No." Kanda stared ahead, arms crossed. "In fact, I think you're the biggest asshole ever for that shit. Now quit asking me, hoser."

"What about you? You did the same damn thing!"

The Japanese teen rolled his eyes. "And when I do that kind of bogus shit, no one cares." He shrugged. "It's expected of me. You think everyone's waiting on a fucking revelation of kindness or something?"

"I've been waiting for _years_."

"Then keep it up." Kanda rubbed his temples. "Where the hell is that kid? The buses came in, like, fuckin' minutes ago. He should be here."

"Unless he missed it," Lavi pointed out. "Those yellow kickers motor like the Five-O are chasing them. And he does take a while to get ready and all that. Usually he wakes up about six or seven to have time, but something could'a happened. He's not the kind of Brit to ditch school over something like last night."

Kanda stared at him. "Do you have a crush on the kid or what?" he stated, an eyebrow cocked in wonder.

Lavi sputtered. "The fuck are you talking about?" he demanded. "Shouldn't you know this? He hangs out with you too!"

"_He_ hangs out with _me_." The older eighteen-year-old replied, smirking. "Not the other way around, hoser. You know he's fifteen, right?"

"Shut up, Yuu." The redhead leaned back stubbornly, pouting.

The bell shrilly rang, signaling the beginning of the school day.

Kanda shook his head. "You didn't deny it, Cyclops," he muttered, moving towards the double doors that led inside the school. "I'm going to learn shit. Or something." He looked grudgingly at his friend. "You can wait out here as long as you want, but we already know the VP isn't gonna be happy."

"Link can kiss my ass." Lavi replied with a grin.

"Whatever floats your boat, Cyclops. Whatever."

* * *

"You're _touching_ me Mikk." Allen grounded out with a smile. "You're rubbing your hand against my thigh."

"Chill out baby," Tyki replied happily, turning the wheel smoothly with one hand. "I'm just changing gears. The car is an automatic, you know."

"And the gear isn't near my…_crotch_."

The hand on his thigh did not move, nor did Tyki stop driving. "You shouldn't be so close to the gear, then, babe," he said shrewdly.

"Ah," Allen breathed, pressing his side to the door. "I should be far enough by now, right?"

"Oh _yeah_." Tyki smirked, the light of the sun reflecting off his glasses. He looked over at the boy, slipping a thin cigarette out his black shirt pocket. "And, _assim você sabe_, that door is pretty unstable. David almost fell out a week ago, leaning so loosely against it." He chuckled deeply, pressing the cigarette end into the cigarette lighter, and sending disturbed shivers down Allen's spine. "I've been meaning to get it fixed."

"You're lying."

He stuck the smoke in his mouth. "Baby, I'd _never_ lie to you." The overly sinister smile only made the teenager more uncomfortable than he already was.

Tyki turned back to the road, a smirk on his handsome face. His face pinched as a small, red CMX Turbo slid in front of him suddenly, causing him to slam the brakes of his sleek, black Firebird and screech to a halt to put some space between them. Slamming the heel of his palm into the middle of the wheel, a honk ripped out at the driver.

The Portuguese man sped up, both hands on the wheel. Allen sighed in relief, hand on his temple.

His car came to a steady pace on the left of the CMX, and Tyki leaned over, glaring. "Save that shit for your Atari, betty!" he snapped loudly. "You're a waste of humanity! Its people like you that God made Noah and his Ark!" The white-haired boy shoved him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Can you keep your eyes on the bloody _road_?" he demanded in a voice an octave higher than it should have been.

The driver, a pretty blonde woman with a grafting scar on the side of her face, flipped him off. "Bite me dickweed!" she yelled back at Tyki, catching Allen's attention. He looked over at her, and then he practically screamed, with her eyes widening as well.

"You _twit_!" he hissed, punching Tyki in the arm lightly. "You just hashed my _gym teacher_!"

"Huh, so that's why she's so bagging." The man sped up again, the outline of Hampton High coming into view.

Allen had never been happier. "There's my school!" he exclaimed. "Please, let me out here, and I'll leg it."

"Now, why would I let you walk?" Tyki asked, snorting. "You're in my ride for the long one, babe. So, let me do what I do best."

"Being an unnervingly creepy stalker?"

"Nope." He slowly breathed out the smoke through his nose. "Being there for you."

The statement had the potential to be quite romantic, had Allen been more appreciative and not hating Tyki Mikk's guts.

"Please," he began sternly. "Just, let me out of this car. I'll be fine."

"I really don't want to."

Allen huffed. "Why _not_?" he asked in an annoyed tone.

"Because we're already here." The car came to a stop in front of the high school. Tyki looked through the window, and he smirked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. "Hey, baby, lean a little closer to me, will you?"

"If you would stop calling me _baby_ then I might—"

Tyki's tongue was in his mouth before he could say anymore. The man tangled his fingers in his white hair, and the first thing Allen could think of was his horrible luck.

He pressed his palms against the man's chest and roughly shoved Tyki off of him, wiping his mouth elegantly. "Good_bye_, Mikk," he snapped, opening the car door and stepping out. He looked up and froze, catching the green eye of Lavi. The older teen stared down at him from the top of the stairs in hurt, his lips turned down in a frown.

"Call me Tyki!" the Portuguese man replied, smirking.

Snapping the two out of their stupor, Allen immediately turned to glare at Tyki. "You are _such_ a pain in the arse," he stated, slamming the car door.

"Only if you want me to, baby," Tyki said, the smoke back in his mouth. He winked. "I've got to motor now, so sorry. Band business, and all that jazzy."

The Firebird sped off, and when Allen looked up, Lavi was gone too.

* * *

"Walker!" Cloud Nine yelled as soon as the young man walked into the gym. "I need to speak with you for a moment!"

Allen paled further, as he had been dreading third period the most since his arrival at the school. "Yes, ma'am?" he replied, stepping up to the blonde woman.

Cloud looked down at him, mouth set in a firm line. "Walker," she began. "I went to college with your uncle, back in seventy-one."

"I know."

"And he was, uh, a total slut back then." She smiled warily. "I'm guessing he's still a…?"

"Perverted sexualized womanizing bastard?" Allen finished. He smiled back. "Yes."

"Right. " The blonde coughed into her fist. "So, uhm, that man who you were with this morning, can you tell me his age?"

"Urgh," Allen groaned, rubbing his temples. "Ma'am, I apologize. I'm _not_ having sex with that man, of _all_ people. I'd rather do it with Kanda." He smacked his gloved hand over his mouth in horror, regretting the statement. The name was the first he could think of on the list of 'People He'd Rather Have Sex With Than Tyki Mikk', unfortunately.

"_Yuu_ Kanda?" she demanded, eyes wide. Then, she laughed. "Have fun with that, Walker." She patted him on the top of his head. "I'm just glad I won't have to tell Cross about this, because we were best mates back then."

"Right." The young man grinned. "Could you possibly not tell Vice Principal Link, either?" he asked, leaning in close to the tall woman.

"Huh, like I'd _ever_," she replied, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. "But, really, how _old_ was that guy?"

"Twenty-six?"

Cloud was speechless. "…You're a lot of special, Walker," she finally responded, nudging the boy. She grinned. "You can sit out on the bleachers today."

He had no idea what she meant by that, but, honestly? He wasn't going to complain.

* * *

March 15th, 1985.

With five days of obvious awkwardness between the boys, Lenalee was bound to notice.

"What the _hell_, Allen?" she asked, leaning next to his locker. "Why don't you sit with us at lunch anymore? Let alone come to practice!"

"Because I'm guilty to hell," he answered easily with a smile. "I don't want to let Lavi feel anymore annoyance with me than he has in the past six days."

"Huh." The Chinese girl hummed, finger on her lips. "And what about Kanda?"

"That prick is always annoyed with me, so it wouldn't have made much of a difference."

"True." She closed the locker door for him with the heel of her boot. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why're you going through all this trouble to avoid them?" she asked, frowning. "Well, Lavi's doing the same thing, but he won't tell me what wrong." She eyed him. "So you _have_ to know what's up with him, and I want to know what's up with the both of you."

Allen sighed, adjusting the shoulder strap of his knapsack. "Just—don't be too loud when I say this," he warned, eyes narrowed. Lenalee leaned closer to him, and he brought his mouth to her ear. "Last week, back at _Time_, Tyki Mikk kissed me."

"_Shut up_!" she shouted, jumping back. "You kissed _Tyki Mikk_?"

That incited several surprised and disbelieving looks from a few other students in the hallway.

Allen resisted the urge to bang his head on his locker. "_No_," he replied. "Tyki Mikk kissed _me_. There's a difference."

"Either way, you still mashed with Tyki Mikk, of all people." She huffed. "Choice bastard."

"It isn't _nearly_ as good as you think, Lenalee," he muttered, walking down the hallway. The older girl followed with a trot, face contorted in confusion.

"So, you kissed Tyki," she repeated.

Allen shook his head. "_He_ kissed _me_," he corrected again. "It isn't a great experience, I'll give you that."

Lenalee frowned. "And what does that have to do with Lavi's bettiness?" She had an idea, but wasn't too sure about it.

"Well, he didn't look too jolly when I wasn't fighting back."

"Dude, it's Tyki Mikk. _I_ wouldn't even fight back." She grinned, covering her cheeks. "I am _so_ jealous."

The white-haired teen laughed. "Please, don't be. I was shocked to hell and back." The smile dropped. "I'm the one really in the wrong here, because I couldn't push the wanker away fast enough, and I really didn't want them to see that. And it only adds insult to injury when bloody _Mikk_ kissed me again in his car."

The Chinese girl's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to comment, but a gloved finger touched her lips softly. "I'd love to explain in a better way, but I must catch my bus." He patted her shoulder with a quirk of a smile.

Lenalee smiled, following him exuberantly. "I'll get the 411 sooner or later!" she said. "In fact, I'll go home with you, just to bug my favorite cute bastard."

"Must I be _cute_?" Allen retorted, amused.

"Kanda's already my fav' bastard, so you'll have to stick it, buddy." She giggled at the younger boy, who rolled his eyes with a passion.

He looked up. "Dear Lord," he groaned, stopping in his tracks. "What in the world did I do to deserve this?"

"Deserve wha—?" Lenalee looked in the direction Allen was pointedly avoiding. "Is that…Tyki Mikk?"

"If I threw myself into London traffic, would I still have to suffer this?" the younger boy mused, looking up at the gray sky in thought.

Tyki waved. "What's hap', baby?" he greeted. The man looked over at Lenalee through his small glasses, and then he smirked. "You're the lead singer of the _Black Order_, aren't you? Ace performance, by the way."

Lenalee couldn't help herself.

She hauled out and punched him in the stomach.

The tall man choked in pain as he fell over, clutching his midsection.

The seventeen-year-old panicked. "Oh. My. God!" she gasped, holding her hands out in a frantic manner. "I had, like, a split second to choose between decking your face and your hot stomach because your face is too sexy and I didn't want to hurt it and I kinda assumed you had abs and you're like my favorite singer and I am _so_ sorry but you were kind of harassing my friend and I know he's adorable but maybe you should take a hint and ditch him by the way I'm totally single and I am _so_, _so_ sorry!" She gasped in a deep breath.

Allen stared at her in complete shock.

"Oh, yeah!" Lenalee reached into her black skirt pocket, pulling out a pen. "Can I have your autograph, like seriously?"

Tyki groaned in pain. "Yeah…" he wheezed. "…sure."

"Lenalee…" Allen whispered. "…I think I love you."

* * *

If you were expecting a chapter longer than the last one, please read the following message: "Bitch _please_."

And Wolfie559933 gets props for the hilariously sensible way Allen led Tyki to the wrong place. :D

Oh _Tyki_. I love writing you so much. Timcanpy too. What did Tyki say in Portuguese? "_Você é atrativo_" means "You are hot" and "_Eu não posso ajudar-se_" means "I can't help myself." And "_assim você sabe_" is "so you know". ¡Jesucristo, hablo español! D:

For this chapter, Emiggax will be answering the reviews, not me the Kaza. She will hack into my FFN account and reply when I give her the okay-go, so be prepared. We are _very_ different. She can get, uh, quite...for lack of a better term, mean. She promises to try not to be, though.

BY THE WAY, I have some FUCKING AWESOME NEWS.

Emiggax's football cat (named Henly) finally had her damned kittens. I GOTS ONE! …kinda. :D His(?) name is Seifer (after my favorite FF villain, Seifer Almasy) and he is white and has a black stripe on his tail. I GOT PICTURES! WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MY KITTEN? :DDD I HAVE PICTURES ON MY PHONE!

/feels like Maes Hughes D:

This chapter is only so I can get to chapter 15 quicker.

Next chapter will make Kanda/Allen fans very happy! :D And the Lavi/Allen fans as well. I'm serious, even I love it, and it isn't even written yet.


	15. Owner of a Lonely Heart

_FIFTEEN_

March 16th, 1985.

On that Saturday morning, Yuu Kanda did not find himself the happiest guy in Virginia.

"Why the fuck're you calling me so damn early?" Kanda snarled into the phone, his dark comforter pooling around his hips. He held a corded phone in his hand, with it almost crushed from the grip he had on it. "Damn it old man, I don't _want_ you to come here!"

The voice on the other line laughed cheerfully, which only served to make him angrier. "I fucking _told_ you, you aren't my dad! Jesus _Christ_. …Yeah, I said Christ, so what? …Don't come here! You aren't _wanted_! And next time, call when it _isn't_ eight o-fucking-clock in the morning!"

He slammed the phone back onto the hook and fell back into his bed, closing his eyes.

After a period of thirty minutes, they snapped right back open. "_Fuck_."

Jumping out of his bed, he ran straight to the door of his apartment, checking to see if the door was properly locked.

Then he remembered. "Shit, the old man has a key." Kanda swiftly walked around the apartment, hiding all marijuana related products and locking anything that could've been locked. He then grabbed a pair of pants from his dresser, slipping them on with difficulty, since he was on edge.

"Fuck, can't go through the front," he muttered, tugging on a black shirt. He eyed the window, frowning. "No choice, _damn it_." He practically threw open the sill, looking behind himself.

There was a knock on the door.

"Yuu!" the godforsaken voice of his foster father called jovially. "Yuu, my boy! Open the door, daddy is here!"

"_Hell_ no," Kanda grumbled, jumping out the window quickly. Booted feet hitting the ground gracefully, the eighteen-year-old quickly patted down his pants pockets, eyebrows furrowing in relief when he found a lump in his right pocket.

Yawning, he walked off towards the park.

* * *

"Let me put on my shoes, Tim," Allen scolded the dog, tapping him on the nose. "Honestly, you're so impatient."

"Woof!" the puppy retorted, tongue hanging out his mouth.

"Oh, _whatever_." He finished tying his black and white Converse. "You act like you've never been to the park before."

He snapped the red leash to Timcanpy's white collar. A gloved hand ruffled the dog's ears. "Let's go, boy."

The door was opened, and the puppy ran out, tugging harshly on the leash. Allen paused to make sure the door was locked before being dragged down the walkway and sidewalk by his dog.

"Lord, Tim," he grumbled, finally walking in stride with the yellow puppy. "You're getting bigger everyday! I remember when you could hardly tug a shoelace, and now you're tugging me!"

Timcanpy clearly didn't care as he pointed his nose to every direction, golden eyes bright.

Allen felt rather bad as they crossed the street carefully, as he never really took Timcanpy out much. With school, band practice, sexual harassment, and avoiding his friends, the puppy had to take second burner.

"Then it's partly my fault why you've been blowing up like a cow!" he whispered to himself, shocked. He was never really the type to take responsibilities for his actions until the last minute.

The puppy perked up. "Woo—urgh!" he warbled, almost choking himself in his struggle to move even faster forward. His nails clicked at the concrete as he heaved against Allen's right-handed grip. The boy yelped as he was forcibly moved once more by the puppy. His hand let go, and he nearly fainted in horror as his dog ran across the street, traffic well on its track.

"What the blast?" he demanded, running after Timcanpy. "S-stop! Timcanpy! Where are you _going_?"

A Buick's horn blasted at him as he narrowly dodged the bumper, and he squeaked in surprise as a Dodge pickup screeched to a curving stop in front of him.

"Get off'a the damn road!" an angry man yelled, flipping the white-haired boy off. "I should'a booked your bunk-ass!"

Allen smiled shakily. "My apologies!" he replied, waving once and running down the rest of the crossway.

Breathing lightly, he looked around for his wayward dog in a panic. His hand shot out at a random girl, stopping her in her tracks. "I'm so sorry," he breathed, brushing his hair away from his eyes. "Have you seen a somewhat small-medium-sized dog run by here?"

The girl blushed, her round glasses slipping down her nose. "Uhm, was there a leash t-tailing it?" she asked in a slight stutter, eyes still on Allen's face.

He smiled brightly. "Yes!"

"It went that way," she explained, pointing towards the edge of the park. "I think it went into the park."

"Oh, _thank you_," he said happily, shaking her hand. "If we ever meet again, I'll never forget this!" With that, he ran in the direction of the green park.

The girl touched her hand softly. "_Strike_!" she whispered in joy.

In the park, though, the British teenager was wandering through the playground.

"Timcanpy!" Allen called, huffing. "Tim! _Tim!_"

"Woof!" the dog yipped, in response as it seemed. Allen frowned, following the sound.

"Tim!" he shouted once more, looking around.

"_Shit_!" a familiar growl came. "Get this fucking mutt _off_ of me!"

Allen blinked in surprise, turning around. "_Kanda_?" he said, unbelieving of his eyes.

The Japanese guitarist was sitting on a park bench, his legs crossed at his ankles and his arms hanging over the back of the seat, with a joint sticking out of his mouth as he scowled angrily. Timcanpy was sprawled on Kanda's lap, chewing idly at the man's belt.

The British boy grinned. "Tim!" he exclaimed, walking towards the two. "You ran all the way here just to see Kanda?" He picked up the puppy with minor difficulties.

Timcanpy whined, and bit at Allen's arm. He flicked the dog on the nose. "You made me worry so much, boy!" he scolded. "I had to accost random women in the street for you!"

Kanda snorted.

Allen looked at him. "What?"

"_What?_ Don't talk to me."

Allen frowned, letting the puppy back on the ground, where he decided to lay on Kanda's boots next.

"May I sit there?" he asked coolly, pointing to the spot next to the older teen.

Kanda didn't answer, and blew smoke out his nose slowly.

"Thanks." Allen sat down, crossing his legs. "How was your week?"

"Pretty fuckin' good, since you weren't really around," he answered grouchily.

"At least I'm getting answers," the gray-eyed boy murmured, leaning back. He glanced at Kanda. "About Mikk—"

"I don't wanna hear it," Kanda interrupted immediately, scowling. "Just, shut the fuck up."

"Look, I've got to explain it, because it's _clearly_ a big misunderstanding…"

"Goddamn it, brat, you don't have an off button, do you?" he snapped, glaring. "I said I don't want to fucking hear it!"

"Kanda—"

"Get a clue: No."

"If you would just _listen_—"

"Hey_, no_."

Allen gritted his teeth. "It was my first damn kiss, Kanda!" he snapped, crossing his arms. He rubbed his temples. "So, please, shut up for a moment and let me talk!"

Kanda didn't respond. He took the thin joint from his mouth, wisps of smoke following his motions.

"I'm fifteen," the older teen snorted. "And I probably haven't had nearly the normal childhood like you or Lavi might've had," Kanda coughed several times, hand to his mouth. He stuck the joint back in. "I probably should've knocked Mikk a new one when he just swooped down," Allen made a sliding motion. "And stole my first kiss. I was in shock, you must understand. I always hoped for it to be sweet and unique, not…_Mikk-related_." He paused and looked around, as though the mere utterance of the man's name could summon him.

Kanda huffed, pulling the cigarette back out.

"You're a jerk, Kanda, a total twit, and a complete moron," Allen continued. "But you're still a bloody cool guy, Lavi too. So, I'd like to say that I am really quite sorry that you had to see that—"

Kanda pressed his lips to his, breathing lightly between them.

Allen tensed, prepared to punch the lights out of him, having learned his lesson from one Tyki Mikk. Kanda pulled away quickly, sticking the joint back between his lips.

"You needed to shut the fuck up," he explained, glaring stubbornly. "Try thinking of that as your first kiss instead. I mean, it was fucking obvious you weren't interested in Mikk, so why even _talk_ to me about it? I don't care if you think I'm a _bloody cool guy_, I'll still kick your ass if you tell anyone what just happened here."

Allen sat stock-still, shocked.

His lips parted, and a small puff of wispy smoke escaped.

He blinked. "I hope that didn't count as an indirect drag," he deadpanned, glaring back at Kanda. "I _don't do_ marijuana, jerk!"

"Like I'd share my weed with you, brat. I'm only hanging out right now because my ex-foster dad is _stalking the hell outta me_." The Japanese man gritted his teeth. He shook his leg, making Timcanpy look up at him happily. "I'm going to kick your dog if it keeps fucking with me!"

Allen shoved him. "I'll cut your betty hair if you even nudge Tim!" he threatened.

"Cut _my_ hair? Kid, if anyone here is in the need of a haircut, it's _you_." Kanda smirked. "The ladies don't like the old gay guy look, much."

"Oh," the younger breathed, smiling. "I forget how they fancy the overconfident queen look much better." He leaned closer. "How does it feel to be a lesbian?"

"Wow, kid, that's kinda like saying you're a woman." Kanda frowned. "Didn't know you had it in you. Clutch job, brat."

"Now you're just being rude."

"What? Have I ever been nice?"

Allen grinned, and received an irritated elbow. "Maybe once or twice."

* * *

March 18th, 1985.

Allen opened his locker, humming an obscure tune underneath his breath as he retrieved the books he was planning on putting in his knapsack.

He closed the metal door.

"Hey."

"_Dear god_!" Allen yelped in shock, looking to the side. Lavi leaned against the lockers next to him, green eye staring forward. "Uh, hello?"

"What's up, Brit?" the redhead grinned, and he scratched underneath his bandana. "So, it turns out Yuu told me everything."

Allen paled further. "_Everything_?" he repeated. That was an unfair trade, to make Allen swear secrecy but he got to parade in information around, in a Kanda-like manner, of course.

"Yep. About Tyki Mikk stealing your first kiss and how you were all worked up and shit over us and how you think I'm a _bloody cool guy_ and stuff."

"Oh," he sighed in relief. "Okay then."

"And, yeah, I'm still kind of pissed, but at Tyki," he assured, holding up a hand. "You were just in a little shock, and I'll say that you should've been. At least now if he bumps you, you can just lay him out with the old one, two!" He punched at the air with both fists, smiling. "And yeah, I've gotta say, I was kind of a jerk."

"No—"

"Don't fool yourself, man." He waved his hand in dismissal. "It's all good. I was a jerk, and we all know that I was being a jerk for that time. Will I have anymore prick moments in the future? Probably, but let's not look that far out."

"Lavi…" Allen started with a smile. He shook his head. "What are you trying to say?"

Lavi scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I guess I'm just trying to say…" he huffed, grinning. "I'm sorry."

Allen blinked. "Well, that—"

The redhead spread out his arms. "C'mon, Al," he purred. "Forgiveness?"

The white-haired boy didn't get a chance to answer as the long arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to the older boy's body.

He smiled. "Forgiven." He hugged Lavi back just as hard, and maybe even harder.

Lavi pressed his cheek to Allen's neck. "And the next time someone kisses you without permission," he muttered. "Tell me, so I can kick their ass."

Allen laughed, although nervously. "Thank you, I suppose?"

"No prob'." The redhead finally let go, straightening up and grinning. "That hug was hot. We've _got_ to do it again sometime."

"Um. Yeah." The British boy shouldered his bag. He furrowed his eyebrows, unsure of this particular Americanism. "Sure, why not?"

"Nice!"

* * *

"You guys finally made up?" Lenalee asked, ruffling Allen's hair.

He nodded. "It was worth it," he replied.

"What? The kissing?"

He froze. "What are you talking about?" Allen replied in a slight panic.

The Chinese girl frowned. "Did you forget about Tyki already?" she asked. "Oh, and he asked about you on Saturday. He popped by the school, where I was staying for the spring party preparations. I didn't give him your number, though." She smiled. "I gave him mine."

"You've done me a great deed, Lenalee." He smiled. "And, yeah, I kind of did forget about the kiss, to be truthful."

"How? It was, like, your _numero uno_ kiss!"

"Oh, I don't consider it to be," he replied happily, waving at Kanda, who walked into the garage with a scowl and a can of soda. "How is that stick up your arse?" he greeted.

The can was thrown harshly at him, and he caught it smoothly. "Thanks," he said, popping it open with a smirk. He shrugged at Lenalee. "I didn't feel like getting the soda myself, sue me."

Lenalee blinked in amazement. "You just handled Kanda like a pro," she commented, jostling him. "I never knew you had it in you."

"Yes, well, we spent some time together over the weekend." Allen sipped at the soda. "Did you know that Kanda's belt was made of real leather?"

"_Was_?"

"Timcanpy loves cows. I'm trying to break him out of the habit, I promise!"

"For some reason, I really don't believe you."

Lavi grabbed the can from his hands, bringing it to his lips. "Your dog tried to eat Yuu's hair," he stated, leaning against Allen's synthesizer.

The white-haired boy blinked. "I, uhm, I just drank from that."

"Word?" Lavi replied sarcastically. "I couldn't notice." He gulped back the rest. "It's like an indirect kiss, baby."

"Don't call me _baby_," Allen muttered, pouting. "It reminds me of _Mikk_."

Lenalee glared at Lavi. "He hates to be reminded of that sexy coldstone man." She looked at the younger boy. "Are you sure you can't tell him I'm totally available?"

"Mikk won't listen to me!" Allen insisted. "I talk, and he just stares at my moving mouth! I _know_ he does!"

Lavi shrugged. "Really, I can't blame him." He laughed airily.

"Oh, please do _not_ start with this today."

"Start with what?"

"You're pulling a _Mikk_, Lavi!"

Lenalee looked him over. "…Nah," she finally responded. "Red's too short, too pale, and he's good-looking, but not what I'd call _sexy_. Tyki is _sexy_!"

"Your words, they burn." Lavi replied blandly, rolling his eye.

* * *

March 20th, 1985.

Tyki Mikk nervously picked at his pants as he stood in front of the gates to the side of the high school. The blue ripped threads artistically placed along the legs of the jeans were beginning to get on his nerves, even though he bought them that way. In fact, it seemed like all the usual accessories to his looks were beginning to piss him off. His long sleeved red shirt hung off his toned body like a New Wave hippie, and his wavy hair kept falling into way of his round, swirling glasses.

"Come _on_, baby," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. "The bell rang, like, five minutes ago." He checked his watch. Yes, it was exactly five minutes.

Leaning against the steel-linked fence, Tyki closed his eyes, cigarette smoke swirling around his face as he waited. A group of girls walked by, all dressed similarly in the stylish clothing of this day, with short skirts on their hips, stockings on their legs, and bangles hanging from their arms.

He smiled at them. They giggled back, walking a little faster.

"Not my type," he replied, looking towards the school once more. He caught a flash of snow white hair, and he grinned, the cigarette in between his teeth. "Just not my type."

Allen walked towards the gate, accompanied by his redhead buddy.

"Back together, huh?" Tyki mused, turning around. He hooked his fingers on the fence. "I kind of thought he gave up."

The fifteen-year-old looked up, blinking at his presence. "It _can't_ be…"

Tyki waved back, smirking. The boy couldn't have possibly thought that he gave up after that decidedly harsh punch to the stomach. If he couldn't handle the punch of a teenage girl, then he might as well not be cut out for show business.

"Hey," he greeted.

Allen walked up quickly, smiling. "Mikky!" he exclaimed, grabbing his hand and shaking it. "I haven't seen you at all since Krory's!"

The smile fell. "Oh." It must've been the glasses. "Uh, well, you sure have grown." He smiled, a nervous edge to the twitch of lips. The kid wasn't rejecting him, so maybe he could keep it up. His tanned fingers scratched behind his neck sheepishly. It was probably the hair as well.

"Really?" the white-haired boy asked, an eyebrow cocked. "And you look exactly the same…just, your shirt is gaudier. And your brush of stubble is, err…Lavi?"

"Baggin'?" the older teen replied, the stick of his lollipop sticking out of his mouth. "Lame? Grodie?"

"American slang means _nothing_ to me, Lavi," Allen retorted, poking the taller boy in the chest. He turned to Tyki, smiling. "I guess I'll just say, uh, _bodgy_."

He didn't know what the hell that meant, but he'd be _damned_ if the kid didn't have the most beautiful accent he'd ever heard.

"Thanks, I guess." Tyki rubbed his chin. "It is time for a swipe of a shave, though. So, yeah."

"Why are you hanging out in front of my school?" Allen asked suspiciously. "You look rather iffy, especially in those clothes."

"I was just taking a smoke," Tyki answered smoothly. He smirked. "The view here is just banging, you've gotta know."

Allen looked forward. "I just see a large stretch of street."

"And our def's of beauty differ, bab—Brit." He smiled, almost cursing his slipup.

Lavi rolled his eye. "C'mon Al, let's ditch this creep."

"But I haven't seen Mikky in a dick year!"

"Oh yeah." Tyki agreed. "A dick year. But, it's all good, kid. Go hang out with your buddy, 'cause I'm sure we'll meet again." He pressed his hand to the small of Allen's back, pushing him forward on the sidewalk.

Lavi snorted. "Yeah, sure _Mikk_," the redhead conspicuously shoved him as he walked by.

"Oh," the Portuguese man grinned, leaning in close to Lavi. "Just call me _Mikky_."

* * *

REWRITE OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN: OWNER OF A LONELY HEART. BECAUSE IT SUCKED. D:

Did a few surveys, and voila! A better chapter than before. Because Tyki has magical properties like that.

If this is your first time reading chapter 15, then CONGRATULATIONS. YOU JUST AVOIDED A WHOLE CHAPTER OF FAIL AND AIDS. You missed nothing. Cut out several parts, like the Allenphone (thanks Shiguna!) because we want Cross to come a little later. Deleted any sentence that pissed me off, thoroughly molested the backspace key, and got to go to sleep with a smile.

So, Emiggax and I have come to a conclusion.

As you all may know, this story is rated **M**. It was originally rated **M** for Tyki Mikk (dead srs) and language.

Now, we just want you to know that there might be gay sexual situations in the future. And it will be gay. BUT, as many people might know, I, the Kaza, am no good with writing lemons. Hardly even limes. Alas, much research must be poured into this effort, there forth you should all _give me your gay porn_. :D

What pairing will get those privileges? We already know. You can try and guess, but we won't try and correct you or mistake you. :D We're kind of assholes, you must understand.

I hope the Kanda/Allen was to the liking of the people, as well as the Lavi/Allen.

I love writing Tyki too much. :D Tyki/Allen is very nice at times, in my opinion. Although, my OTP changes like my outfit, so there's no telling what may happen next. :D

HA HA HA! Seifer's eyes are open and they are blue! There is a Kanda kitten, who is not the largest as I once thought. It's the _Tyki_ kitten that is the biggest. He's fucking huge for a week-old kitten, according to Emiggax. I'll be getting the pictures of them up soon! :DDDD


	16. Rush Hour

_SIXTEEN_

April 1st, 1985.

Sometimes, Lavi got the distinct feeling that maybe he was a little _too_ popular.

"Don't try _anything_ suspicious today, Lavi," Link warned, intercepting the senior student at the front entrance to the school.

Lavi cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah?" he replied cheerfully. "What's up with that anyway? I'm not oddballing out so you can pick on only me, pimple face."

"You know what today is." The vice principal made a conscious effort to not roll his eyes.

"Throw me a bone, would ya?" the redhead grinned, his white teeth edged with red from the candy in his mouth.

"April the first only means _one thing_, Lavi. _One thing_." Link huffed. "I'd just like this day to go by as quickly as possible, with no incidents. Like the girl's bathroom stink bomb debacle of '84?"

"Dude, that was _so_ last year. Fer cereal, it was just last year. And no one got hurt. I paid off all the damages, VP!" Lavi whined, trying to get another expression than the deadpan one he was receiving from Link. "Gimme a _break_!"

"No." The tall man stepped aside. "Suspension is _imminent_."

"Chillax, man." Lavi held up his hands in surrender. "Lemme make a deal, since this is the last April Fools' you'll be bunking with me." His green eye sparkled. "If I don't get caught doing a single prank all school day, then you've got to get the hell off my case, man."

"Hmm?" Link hummed, blinking. He tapped a pale finger against his chin. "And if you _do_, then I can suspend you and take you off of the valedictorian list."

"Like you can dish out anyone better for valedickie, but whatev'." Lavi patted Link roughly on the shoulder. "Don't have a cow, all right?"

The blond man brought a hand to his temples, rubbing away a headache that didn't exist, but didn't mean it couldn't.

* * *

"Al! Baby!"

"Don't call me that!" Allen sighed, brushing his white bangs out the way of his eyes.

Kanda jammed his key into the lock on the metal door of his locker. "This shit isn't working!" he grumbled, twisting the key harshly, almost bending the metal. He glared icily at Lavi. "You bugged my locker, didn't you?"

"I ain't sayin' I've got _anything_ to do with it." Lavi grinned, hands interlaced behind his head. "Bogus, right? And even if I _did_, well, I made a deal with the VP, so yeah. I wanna be valedictorian, Yuu."

"The only _bogus_ shit around here will be you when I finish kicking your ass." The long-haired teen kicked at the locker when it rejected his manual effort.

Allen clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Ickle Andy can't even open a lock?" he cooed, grinning with a satanic tint. Pushing Kanda away from the locker with a gloved hand, he tapped at the metal door and removed the key. "Allow me to try." Kanda refrained from punching the lights out of the boy, but his arm was tensed in preparation.

"Try away!" Lavi encouraged, eye closed. "I'll just book it while you're busy, kiddo." He walked towards his first period class with a bounce in his step.

Allen pulled out his own house keys, grinning cheerfully. "This shouldn't take but a moment," he replied easily.

Kanda stared. "…You're a fucking idiot, aren't you?" he asked as though he were hit with an epiphany.

"Not at all." The British boy chose a thin L-shaped screw from the key-ring and jabbed at the keyhole roughly with it several times at various angles, and the lock popped open. He opened the door with a smirk, "How _easy_," and let out a small shriek as a long-necked object popped out immediately. "Dear _god_!" he exclaimed, jumping away.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" the older teen demanded, pushing the younger boy out of the way. A jack-in-the-box's head hung limply out the shelf, and Kanda frowned. He threw open the locker further, and was hit dead-on in the face with a stream of water.

He sputtered, trying to shake away his bangs, which were plastered onto his face and in his eyes.

Allen looked around. "Where the hell did _Lavi_ rush off to?" he asked, shocked and clutching his hand to his chest.

Kanda opened his mouth, and various words of a language that most definitely wasn't English were snapped out, and he punched his locker door several times, a dent steadily appearing in the metal.

Johnny rushed out of his class that was literally next to the locker, glasses tipping off his nose, and grabbed the much bigger male by the arms. "Calm down, buddy!" he groaned, trying to hold Kanda back. "It hasn't done a thing to you!"

The eighteen-year-old shook off the small man roughly with little effort (still yelling in that other language, Allen noted, amused) and he wiped his hands over his wet hair, parting the bangs so he could at the very least see. Shoving Johnny off him one more time into the lockers, he stalked off down the hall, with the tardy bell ringing shrilly at the same time.

Allen stared. "Did…did he just speak…another language?" he asked aloud, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. The young teacher shakily stood up straight, his glasses crooked.

"Yep." Johnny grinned, holding his face gingerly. "He's so damn good at English that it's easy to forget it isn't his original language. He was yapping away in some Japanese, just so you know. The rest, well, where he's from-they curse like that, I'd say."

"Hmm." Allen hummed, nodding. The language spoken was pretty obvious, considering how the fact that Kanda is Japanese had been established, several times. But, what did he mean by 'where he's from'? "Thank you." He smiled. "And, uhm, I believe your nose is bleeding."

"What?" The teacher removed his hand from his face, and a stream of red dripped from his nose. "Damn Sam, it always happens!"

* * *

Lenalee screamed at the plastic roach found in her sandwich that lunch, and immediately began beating Lavi over the head with her Calculus textbook, fifth edition.

"Ow!" the redhead whined, cowering behind Allen, who did not want to be involved. "What's the big idea, Lenalady?"

"You and your bogus April first pranks!" she retorted, throwing the plastic roach at him angrily. "_So_ not cool!"

"It's April first?" Allen asked, dodging the toy bug with an irked expression. "I had no idea."

Kanda, with his black hair back into its normal ponytail at the nape of his neck, scowled with an irritated huff. "If shit is jumping out of people's lockers for _no good damn reason_," he glared pointedly at Lavi. "It's April Fools' Day."

"Yikes," the one-eyed teen purred, leaning his chin onto his younger friend's shoulder. "That sound's like a personal problem to _me_."

"And it almost sounds like you'll be taken off the valedictorian list, Lavi." Link stated in an annoyed tone, stepping to the side of the cafeteria table. "I've received _eight_ complaints today. _Eight_."

"…And?" Lavi replied, waving his hand in a motion to continue. "Anything else?"

"You're obviously guilty. Eight people have said that you set off several pranks in the last four hours."

Lavi breathed in disappointment. "_You_ have to catch me in the act, pimple-face. Not go off on other joker's words, 'cause that just ain't professional." He grinned. "So, like I said…anything else?"

The blond man, who personally could not wait until next month when the boy graduated, paused. "No." He walked off stiffly, rubbing his temples.

"Poor guy," Lenalee mused, watching him go. "You're gonna make him have a heart attack or something one day."

"Yeah, yeah, whatev'," Lavi yawned, pressing his face onto Allen's neck. He blinked. "Holy shit, you smell gay."

"What the bloody _hell_—"

"Did I not say so?" Kanda demanded. "I totally said he smells like gay tea!"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't _believe_ you!" Lavi sniffed the younger boy, frowning. "Dude, this is seriously whacked."

"What does gay tea smell like?" Lenalee asked Allen, leaning forward.

Allen shook his head. "Bugger if _I_ know!" he replied, crossing his arms. "I never thought I even _had_ a smell!"

"You do." Kanda deadpanned. "And it smells fucking _gay_."

"That isn't very nice!" the Chinese girl scolded, hitting him lightly on the head.

The Japanese teen rubbed the spot. "Well, the real world isn't very fucking nice either. _Especially_ when it comes to fags who smell like gay tea."

"What in the world is _gay tea_?"

"As if! He's _so_ not a fag." Lavi cocked an eyebrow. "At least I think. Al, are you gay or what?"

The gray-eyed boy gaped. "I'm _fifteen_!" he cried, pressing his hands to his chest. "I don't _care_ about those kinds of things!"

"So, what, do I have to wait until you're sixteen to flirt effectively or something?" the redhead retorted, leaning his chin on the back of his hand. "That's bogus."

Allen paused. "You've been flirting?"

"You haven't _noticed_?" Lavi looked affronted. "I can_not_ be losing my touch."

"He's only kissed guys so far," Lenalee commented. "Maybe he _is_ a fag."

"No, not a _fag_," Allen corrected. "_Fifteen_. You can't possibly expect an answer better than that from me."

Kanda yawned, covering his mouth. "Oh, _I_ can," he murmured, lips twitching in a small smirk. "That Saturday was a mint experience." He opened his eyes slowly. "I learned a lot about gay British kids that day."

Allen gasped, offended. "You _arse_! It was never to be mentioned again! _Again_!"

"What're you going off about?" the older teen replied easily. "I was just talking about our _awesome_ convo. When your fucking mutt chewed my belt, remember?"

Lenalee looked amazed. "I knew you might've been a fag!" she said, pointing at Kanda. "You totally like Al!"

The smirk was wiped clean off. "What?" he asked dangerously. "What're you trying to say here, Lenalee?"

"Oh, bag your _face_, Andy," she grinned, pinching his cheek. He swiped at her hands fruitlessly. "You know more stuff about him than _anyone_ else! But, its okay, I think it's totally ace, so don't worry."

"Ooh, he does know a lot more," Lavi mused aloud. Then, he grinned. "I'm still down with what part of his body is most ticklish!"

"What? No." Kanda glared at Allen. "See? Now you're making people think _I'm_ gay!"

"You brought it upon yourself." Allen retorted, crossing his arms. He blinked, turning to Lavi. "How the bloody hell do you know what part of my body is most ticklish?"

Lavi rolled back the long black sleeve of his shirt, looking at the thin wristwatch. "Time to go!" he crowed, sliding off the bench. He ruffled Allen's hair, smiling. "Check you zeeks out _later_!"

"He avoids questions like Kanda avoids administrators in this school," the Chinese girl muttered, shaking her head.

"He is, like," Kanda searched for the word with a frown. "_Mad_ prep."

"I'm sure." Allen held a hand to his stomach. "I think I'm hungry," he said, blinking.

Lenalee grimaced. "Do you want my sandwich?" she offered, holding the food out to him. "I just can eat it."

"Well, that's okay, because I can." He took an abnormally large bite from the sandwich, and chewed quickly.

"Goddammit," Kanda groaned, getting up from the table. "Watching _you_ eat makes _me_ wanna puke. You're a total Pac-Man." Shaking his head, he walked away, thumbs hooked in his pockets.

"Hey!" Lenalee called after him. "Did you want to sha—"

"No."

* * *

"See ya, Brit!" Lavi called from the passenger seat of Kanda's van. "I want a British goodbye! None of that American 'bye bye' shit!"

Allen waved back, pulling his house keys out of his pocket. "Cheers!" he shouted back, smiling.

"Excellent!" The van screeched off.

Opening his door and walking into the house, Allen got the slight suspicion that his overbearing stalker might find an utterly "hilarious" April Fools' joke to pull on him.

"Tim?" he called out. "Where are you?"

The dog drowsily poked his head over the couch, where he sprawled out on the red cushions.

Allen smiled, hooking his backpack onto the coat hanger next to the door.

A knock was heard before he could even get out the walkway.

"Dear Lord," Allen murmured, opening the door. The Portuguese lead singer of Noah's Ark leaned against the concrete wall. He looked up at Tyki's smiling face, and sighed.

"I'm calling the police," he stated, moving away.

Tyki smiled harder. "No need, baby," he purred, holding out a hand. "I've actually got some great news."

"…I'm definitely calling the police."

"I've decided to give up on you."

Allen paused. "What?" he asked, eyes wide. "Are you bloody _serious_?"

"Oh yeah."

He wasn't a gullible child, in his own opinion, but even he couldn't doubt this chance for peace and no more harassment.

"That's wonderful!" he said happily. "Now you can move on with your life, instead of pining after a fifteen-year-old boy who blatantly isn't interested!" The smile on his face was beginning to hurt his cheeks.

Tyki grinned, and leaned down. "Baby, that was so April Fools' it isn't even funny," he murmured, and he kissed the boy on the cheek. "I was totally kidding about giving up on you. What am I, a loser?"

"Yes." Allen replied, pushing the older man away. "I'm going to go call the police now."

"All right," the dark-skinned vocalist replied laughingly. He flipped off a loose military salute. "See ya, babe." He walked down the walkway with a bounce in his step.

Allen, for some reason, didn't even call the police. And he already regretted it.

* * *

April 16th, 1985.

"Guess what?" Lenalee exclaimed, rushing into the garage. "You would not _believe _what I've got to tell you guys!"

Lavi gasped, jumping up from behind his trap set. "Oh my god!" he replied, voice in a mockingly high octave. "Like, what's up?" He paused, tapping his chin. "Wait, did you decide to get a _new face_? Because, that would be _rad_!"

"Go play in traffic." The Chinese girl turned to the others. "The school called me—"

"That's bad," Allen said immediately. "Phone calls from schools are, I don't know, usually…what's an American slang term for bearing bad news?"

"'Fucked up' is universal," Kanda said in his usual irritated tone, strumming four chords on his guitar. He tuned the D-string idly. "So, you'd probably say 'School phone calls are fucked up'."

"…I'd rather not, but _okay_." The fifteen-year-old smiled at Lenalee. "School phone calls are what he said."

Lenalee rolled her eyes. "Like I was _saying_," she continued, flipping her bangs out of her eyes. "The school called -for a K-RAD reason you losers- and they want me to sing for them!"

Lavi huffed. "And?" he said. "That's lame. You've sung for them…well, you probably would've sung for them if you stayed in Chorus, but then you changed to Art." He grinned at Kanda, who plucked a particularly sour-sounding note.

"It so isn't lame!" she said, offended. "I'll be singing at _your_ graduation ceremony! That's what makes it so primo!"

"Our graduation ceremony?" the redhead repeated, blinking. "But, _why_? And when? And, Jesus Christ, what are you _thinking_, agreeing to this shit?"

"It would be a great experience!" Lenalee argued. "And then I can see the look on your face when you give your speech, _up close_."

"What? No!" He held his hands in front of himself, waving her off. "Total embarrassment!"

"Embarrassment?" the seventeen-year-old gasped, snapping her fingers. "Talking about embarrassment, it's totally lame how I would've been singing with Andrew on piano."

"Andrew?" Allen said, confused. "Isn't he in eleventh grade? I have a class with him, and I don't see what so wrong about him playing. He isn't bad."

"He isn't _good_ either, and I know _good_." Lenalee winked at him. "So, I got them to let you play instead!"

The British boy could've sworn he knew how to breathe.

Lavi gaped. "You _didn't_!" he said, sitting back down behind his drum set in shock.

"Well yeah, I did." She shrugged. "Allen's, like, the best before the best. He plays, it's rad, and the music always has a proper feel to it with his piano!"

Kanda furrowed his eyebrows. "The brat, he's…" he trailed off, clearly unable to give anyone a compliment. "He's okay. Andrew What'shisface is definitely no better, so maybe you did make a good choice this time."

"I can't do it," Allen finally said, smiling. "Many apologies to you, Lenalee."

"Hmm?" she hummed, looking at him. "And why not?"

"I really can't do duets, or whatever this is considered." He waved a hand at the interior of the garage dismissively. "I can do a band, because then I know there will be other instruments to help, possibly even cancel me out."

Lavi snorted. "Please, you might as well almost be canceling _me_ out, and I play these loud-ass _drums_." He twirled a drumstick between his fingers.

"Which obviously means you're, like, really good, so what's the problem?" Lenalee asked, crossing her arms.

"The _problem_ is that I've only been playing for five months. I'm _not_ that good!"

Kanda immediately looked over at him. "_Five_ fucking months?" he demanded. "And we've know you, what, _four_?"

"And a half, but that isn't the point."

"Jesus Christ, you're, like, a _prodigy_ or something," Lavi said, amazed. "That's fucking _awesome_! I've been playin' for years and you're almost blowing me out the water!"

"So you joined a band, knowing you were a total noob?" Kanda asked, an eyebrow cocked. "That's the smartest thing I've even seen you to do, brat."

"How is that smart?" Lenalee asked.

Kanda groaned, clearly annoyed with having to explain. "People like him learn faster with experience," he replied, irritated. "So, he came to us to get some criticized practice, even though no one here plays shit like the _piano_."

"Like the guitar is so much better," Allen retorted, rolling his gray eyes.

"It is. And you're gonna play in that damn ceremony." The Japanese teen frowned. "Fuck, when is graduation?"

"The twenty-fourth of May, last day of school." Lavi answered.

"Yeah, you're gonna play."

"How do you know?" the youngest member asked.

"Because you fucking _suck_ at simple melodies, brat." Kanda stood up, leaning Mugen on its stand. He stretched, cricking his neck. "Shit, that chair fucks me over."

"What's wrong with my music?" Allen asked, frowning.

"Go over there." The older teen commanded, pointing at the synthesizer. "I don't repeat myself to vertically challenged brats."

"Please, play in traffic." Allen walked over to his keyboard anyway. He huffed. "Now what, twat?"

"Play the simplest melody you know, kid."

Allen blinked, looking down at his keyboard. His gloved fingers brushed over the keys as he contemplated the least complicated song he knew, and he touched the lower E key tentatively.

"Kanda, what the hell does this have to do with getting him to agree?"

"Hold it, Lenalady," Lavi said, grinning. "He's getting somewhere. I think."

The British teenager played the simplest medley he knew, and he looked over at Kanda, who was yawning.

"Canon in D Major?" he stated. "That's the simplest song you know?"

"It's actually Canon in D _Minor_," Allen corrected, hands stilling over the keyboard. "I can't see why a twit who can't even get Pachelbel correct is going to try and teach me _anything_."

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda replied easily. "Now, play 'Saints'."

"Ah man, I love that song!" Lavi whined. "Let me play!"

Allen looked confused. "What is _Saints_, exactly?"

"The Saints Go Marching In, skeezer." He rolled his eyes. "Now who's the twit?"

"You." The pale boy tapped his chin. "I still don't know how the song goes."

"Idiot." Kanda went back to his guitar, swinging the strap back over his shoulder. Turning off the amp, he glared at the younger boy. "Keep your attention stoked," he warned. "I'm playing this shit once, and once only."

The eighteen-year-old thumbed three chords, at different timings. The sound was simple, and easy to remember, yet Allen did not truly understand the point of him playing it.

"Chords," Lavi spoke aloud, waving at Allen. "A, B7, and E minor."

"Now, you can try."

"Okay?" Allen replied slowly. He touched the keys Lavi explained, and played as slowly as Kanda did on his guitar.

Kanda scowled. "Lame. Play faster."

So he did, frowning.

"Still sounds bogus. Faster, but spiff it up."

"Spiff it up?"

"How the fuck have you survived so far? Add your own flair to it. Like," Kanda adjusted his guitar, and thumbed the three chords again, but this time much faster. He slid his fingers over another chord, and his other hand worked on rapidly pressing against the neck strings. "That."

"So you prefer rock?" the fifteen-year-old asked, intrigued. Well, it fit the older teenager's whole 'Infinitely Enraged' image, he'd say.

"I prefer whatever the hell I want to play. Now, you go, brat."

Allen played once more, but worked on a more classical tune.

"Al likes classical music," Lavi commented, tapping his finger against the right tom drum. "Proper."

He stopped. "I love all music," he replied with a grin. "But, classical comes better to me."

Kanda clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth condescendingly. "Keep playing, brat!" he snapped, repeating his version of the jazz song.

"Shut up!" Allen continued his classical medley of 'Saints', upping the tempo as though to keep up with the older teen.

A low tapping informed the others that Lavi had joined in, his booted foot pressing steadily at the bass drum. "Baby, this is where it's at!" he crowed, thumping the two of his drumsticks against both toms in a synchronized beat. "Lenalady, add your touch to it too!"

"Yeah, with you playing like New Wave, Al playing like classical, and Kanda playing like rock?" she laughed. "You boys are just weird."

"But you love us!"

"Yeah." She raised her voice. "_Ooh, when the saints, go marchin' in! Ooh when the saints, go marchin' in! Ooh how I want to be in that number!_" she sang, hands behind her back.

A sudden snap stopped the music, and the band members looked over at Kanda, who was sticking his bleeding middle finger in between his lips.

"Snapped a-fuckin'-gain!" he muttered around the finger, scowling. He looked over at Allen, glaring. "You're gonna play at that fucking ceremony, kid."

"Do you even _know_ my name?" Allen asked, amused.

"Not really." Kanda shrugged. "And, mint thing is, I don't really care."

"Why not? You care about everyone else!"

Lavi immediately fell off his chair in hysterical laughter, a tear leaking from his one eye. Lenalee looked away, coughing suspiciously to hide her own laughter.

Kanda stared at him, finger still in his mouth.

"April Fools' was, like, two weeks ago, kid," he said slowly.

"Oh, ha ha." Allen huffed. "My name is Allen, just so you know."

"I totally care. Wait, no, I don't. Psyche, all that jazz." Kanda yawned again. "Shit, I'm getting tired. All right kid, how about a deal?"

"A deal?" Allen smirked. Gambling was one thing he could do, and he would love to do it with Kanda.

"You play for Lenalee at that ceremony, and you play it fucking _well_, like, holy-shit well…I'll quit calling you brat."

"And kid," Allen said. "You call me kid a lot. And hoser, dickweed, fuckoff, arsehole, skeezer, loser, geek, nerd, poser, _fag_, zeek, stoker, lamer, twit—"

"You said twit first, brat." Kanda interrupted, scowling. He huffed. "All right, then your performance better be fucking _fantastic_ if you want me to dump my vocab."

"All right, I'll go."

Lenalee squealed, hugging him happily. "Thank you so much!" she said jovially. "It'll be the best they'll ever see!"

"It better be," Lavi said cheerfully. "Or he'll be 'brat' for the rest of his life."

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to Shiguna, because there is awesome, and there is her. NEW BREED OF AWESOME, LEMME TELLS YA

Next chapter will be, like, the graduation of Lavi and Kanda. Yay. :D I love writing Link too, I have discovered.

Emi and I have realized that we still have no fucking idea how many chapters we will have, because we're about at the half-way point now. Or something. So, in case you were interested or blah blah whatever, this story will definitely have more than thirty chapters.

Everyone who actually gave the Kaza gay porn…YOU ALL WIN. ALL OF YOU. Do you know what Epic Win is? IT IS YOU! I HAVE NO LIKE FOR YOU, BUT ABSOLUTE ADORATION. julstimes2: YOU GET NO ADORATION. YOU GET MY _WORLD_.

Kanda kitten has died. D: I'm really sad about that, actually. I went to Emi's house last weekend after AWA (if you were there, chances are I sexually harassed you, which I apologize for, lol not really) and saw the kittens. Kanda kitten was HARDCORE. I picked him up (he was only two weeks old) and he didn't even cry, in comparison to Seifer who bitched the moment I touched him. He just looked at me like "Dude, wtf" and I kept loving all over him. I can't believe he _died_, he looked so healthy and just fine. Even worst than that, Seifer isn't looking too good, according to Emi. I'm, like, shocked and all that jazz. I might pull a Lenalee and scream out "TO GOD, WHOM I HATE SO MUCH" if Seifer does go away.  
EDIT: Seifer has died. As well as Tyki. Only kitten left is Chamel (aka Allen). I have screamed "TGWIHSM" successfully out the window. D: I can't even smile right now.

Speaking of Lenalee, episode 102 is epic. You should all watch it. And then tell me who's who when Allen and Lenalee start screaming in synchronization. It's rather pitiful when one isn't able to tell a fifteen-year-old boy from a sixteen-year-old girl once they start war-crying together.


	17. Never Say Never

_SEVENTEEN_

April 30th, 1985.

"_Would all seniors please report to the auditorium?_" the droning voice of Reever spoke over the speakers. "_I'm repeatin', would all seniors please report to the auditorium?_"

Allen stared at the speaker. "…Mr. Wenham is a secretary too?" he asked, surprised.

Didi LeJeune, the resident British Literature teacher, scoffed with a smile. "_Non_," he replied in a thick French accent. "Reever is just…very nice. He is quite _dans amour_ with the, ah, _bitchy_ secretary." He wrote on the chalkboard scratchily, dust catching onto his blue shaded glasses.

"Hmm? And why do you call her that?" the British boy replied, twirling his pencil between gloved fingers.

LeJeune grinned widely. "Oh, but is she not?" he answered, flinging a wrist limply towards the door. "I just, ah, _call_ them as I _see_ them. Ha, ha—Children!" he barked happily. "Are you not seniors? Why do you sit in here, acting like you actually care for your _éducation_?" He pointed at the chalkboard, which sported the word 'Leave' in bold white lettering.

The majority of the class scrambled out of their seats at that, practically tripping over each other in the effort to get out of the class. LeJeune laughed heartily, taking off his glasses to wipe off the lenses with his shirt.

He glanced at Allen with clear blue eyes. "Oh, I forget," he murmured, donning back the shaded spectacles. "You are not in the twelfth grade, _oui_?"

"Ha, no," Allen said, smiling sheepishly. "I'm a sophomore, really."

"Such a mature _young man_, and smart too." The Frenchman sighed. "I must go to the assembly as well, being a teacher for a senior orientated _classe._" He smiled. "So, let's go, Allen Walker."

"Sir, perhaps you haven't noticed—"

"'_Perhaps you haven't noticed_,'" LeJeune replied in a mockingly false British accent. "Of course I noticed how you're not a senior. You just told me!" The man waved him over. "Now, let's go!"

Allen huffed, stepping out from behind his desk. "If I get in trouble, Mr. LeJeune, I just want you to know I have connections." The two walked out of the class, the door locking behind them. They followed the large crowd of students headed towards the auditorium.

"Trouble? Ha!" the man ruffled the teenager's white hair. "You, Allen Walker, are a great student. Mature, _suave_, all of that jazz. I am sure they will overlook you, even without considering your height."

"…Blinding."

* * *

Lavi cocked an eyebrow. "Brit, dude, what the hell are you doing in here?" he asked immediately, rubbing his chin. He sat in the front row, his denim-clad legs crossed. His best friend, on the other hand, was not seen with him. Of which was an odd sight for the British boy, especially during school hours. Allen shrugged, sitting down next to the redhead, rubbing his temples.

Link glanced at the cheerful Frenchman. "I couldn't have phrased it better myself," he agreed, sighing. "LeJeune, perhaps you hadn't noticed—"

"Everyone is saying that to me today," LeJeune cut off, holding up a hand. He brushed his long blond hair away from his glasses. "I understand, Allen Walker here is not a senior, but he is the only underclassman in my _classe_, and I daren't leave him, as that would be just _horrible_."

"LeJeune, I can't just give him special privileges to him like this." Link argued, arms crossed. "This is directly pertaining to graduation, and for seniors only. Allen Walker, as you _may_ have noticed, is not a senior."

"What, am I senile?" the teacher replied, grinning. "I noticed, _plusieurs_ _temps_. Does he not have a big part in this graduation as well, _principal_ Link?"

Link glared. "I can never get you to see my logic, LeJeune," he muttered, pivoting on his heel.

"Ah, but only because your logic, it is usually _flawed_." The cheerful man retorted, sitting on the other side of Allen. He clapped his hands together. "I love this school, really."

The vice principal stood at the podium, blue eyes scanning over the congregation. "Good morning seniors…and Mr. Walker," he greeted with a sigh.

Allen began lightly hitting the back of his head on his seat edge. Lavi leaned over, stretching his arm over the boy's shoulders.

"It's all good, Brit," he murmured with a grin. "Because I've got a bitchin' speech."

"I…I don't really care right now. I feel so _out of place_."

"This assembly was called pertaining to the graduation ceremony," Link continued. "Now, for your principal to describe that in detail for you, Principal Levierre." The man moved out of the way of the principal.

A tall, imposing brunet man with a toothbrush moustache stepped up to the podium, his hawk-like eyes immediately scanning over the class of 1985.

"Do not think that just because graduation is _so close_," Levierre started, his deep voice dark. "You can simply disregard the rules of my school. I have no trouble in making your lives harder than they should be, but only because you make mine the same." He smiled cruelly, looking down at Lavi and Allen. "I am pleased to announce that the valedictorian of this year has been chosen, with Mr. Lavi J—"

The man was cut off ungracefully as the cheers of the redhead's fellow seniors were shouted out loudly, with clapping and applause ringing about.

Lavi grinned, standing up and clapping with them. "That guy fuckin' _rocks_!" he shouted.

Allen laughed, pulling the older teenager back down. "I can't wait to hear your speech," he said. "I actually mean it this time."

LeJeune gave him a thumb up. "Me as well!" he exclaimed. "You always had _fantastique_ writing skills while in my _classe_, especially when paired with Kanda for joint _projeters_."

Levierre banged his fist on the wood once, striking the attention of the students. "Thank you for the impromptu enthusiasm," he stated in an unimpressed tone. "Now, as I was saying, your favorite senior, Lavi, has been elected valedictorian of 1985 due to his incredible grade point average and community service hours."

Allen blinked, looking at the redhead. "You did _community service_?"

Lavi grinned back, a thin stick poking out of his mouth. "_Duh_," he replied. "I'm, like, the ace student in this school. I _am_ valedictorian, after all."

"As for salutatorian, we are pleased to bring Mr. Yuu Kanda—"

"Hell no!" the ever familiar shout came from the back, with Kanda standing up abruptly. "Fuck that! I don't want to!"

"Really, we don't necessarily _care_," the principal replied calmly. "You see, generally, we would rather choose a rock. Or an _underclassmen_," he glanced coldly at Allen, who resisted the itching urge to roll his eyes. "Than you. But, we are not allowed, so take the honor and _appreciate it_."

"'_Appreciate'_ my _ass_," Kanda snapped, walking down the aisle. "I don't want the _honor_, so why can't you give me _that_?"

Levierre smirked. "Yuu, do you realize that you have put me through _four years_ of _fights_, _assault_, and _unreasonably_ great performance in class despite your constant skipping?" He interlaced his long fingers. "I think this does you perfect justice."

"Fuck _y_—" Allen leaned over Lavi's lap, practically falling out of his seat so he could grab at Kanda's form-fitting shirt.

"Sit _down_, you bloody idiot!" he hissed. "You're only digging your grave deeper, prick!"

"Don't tell me what to do, brat," the Japanese teenager grumbled, but sat to the side of LeJeune, who grinned jovially.

"Good job, Yuu," Levierre spoke, smiling. He waved a hand towards Link, who handed him a sheet of paper from the folder in his hands. "Now, in other matters, the class selection for the graduation will be…Gold?"

Link nodded, lips in a straight line. "By Spandau Ballet," he explained. "It was suggested by Gill, who is the head of the graduation committee. Most of the students agreed."

"And no one thought to discuss this with me?"

"Uh, _doy_." Lavi said, pulling the sucker out of his mouth. "You would've totally been against it, and no one wants to bunk with our lamer Alma Mater."

"Hmm?" the principal hummed, glancing at the one-eyed student. "And this is much better?"

"Yeah," the majority of the congregation chorused, and they broke into small laughter at their unintended synchronization.

Levierre frowned, his moustache twitching. "I'll leave you to it then, Link," he said to the vice principal, who blinked.

"Sir, this was _your_ responsibility—"

"Ah, but it isn't." He smiled. "Now, it's yours." The tall man stepped away from the podium, motioning for Link to take his place.

The blond man paused, and then sighed in resignation. "Well, I suppose I should announce the program." He looked at the sheets of papers in his hands. "First off, the class selection will be performed by Lenalee Lee in eleventh grade, and Allen Walker in tenth. They will be playing vocals and piano, respectively."

Kanda looked over at Allen, smirking.

Allen rolled his eyes, crossing his legs.

"Gowns will be available on the fifteenth of May, and the dress code for the ceremony is the same as it is every year: men will wear black slacks, white shirts, and ladies will wear black skirts, white blouses, or a full body black dress." Link continued reading aloud. "The diplomas will be released to Principal Levierre through a member of the school board, and you will take them and sit down. No stalling." He glared down at Lavi, who waved mockingly.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah!" a boy raised his hand excitedly. "Is that all we're doing?"

"No. But I don't feel like letting you miss class any longer. Especially our prized underclassman, Mr. Walker." Link shook his head, amused. "Don't forget to turn in any last minute fees. You won't be allowed to receive your diploma if you don't."

Kanda blinked. "I didn't pay my dues," he said, raising his hand slightly. "So, I can't be salutatorian or whatever the fuck you penciled me in for."

Levierre laughed cruelly. "Oh, you're all right, Yuu," he replied. "Your father, Tiedoll, has already paid your way."

"That godforsaken prick isn't my dad!" the Japanese teenager snapped, crossing his arms defiantly.

"Either way, you are still salutatorian."

Link shook his head. "You are all dismissed."

Kanda stretched, prepared to climb over the stage in order to land a good punch on the principal.

Allen reached over his British Literature teacher to lightly smack at the older boy's shoulder. "Give _up_," he said sternly. "You simply cannot win!"

"Shut up. I don't feel like writing a speech."

LeJeune frowned, looking at Kanda from his lowered glasses. "You do not feel like writing a _speech_?" He drawled the word in his accent, grinning. "That is no problem! My _meilleur_ writing abilities lie in speeches! You will be more than prepared for May of the twenty-fourth, I promise you, _Monsieur_ Kanda!"

"Oh my fucking god, do _not_ do this to me. That is just…so _lame_."

"Lame!" the Frenchman laughed boisterously, standing up. "He said lame! Allen, can you believe he said _lame_? If it is lame, then you should do it, but with _style_. Lame, he said!"

"Yes, he did say _lame_." Allen chuckled a bit himself, covering his mouth with a gloved hand.

Lavi laughed. "Dude, I wrote mine and it is kick _ass_. Fer cear, don't connisp over it, buddy."

"No." Kanda huffed. "I don't want to."

"Whatev'. You'll do it anyway, I can tell."

* * *

May 5th, 1985.

Kanda scowled, storming into the garage angrily. "Hey, brat," he grounded out, eyebrows furrowed. "Shut that shit up."

"_Shite_?" Allen repeated, pausing in his piano playing. He turned around. "It most definitely isn't _shite_, you arse. It's your class selection. What do you want?"

"Read." The long-haired guitarist thrust a sheet of lined paper at the younger teenager, mouth set in a tense line.

"Read? You mean you _actually_ wrote the speech?" Allen took the paper gently from the Japanese man's hand.

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda huffed and plopped down on the couch, hands behind his head. "Just read it."

Allen's gray eyes scanned over the paper, a growing smile on his pale lips. "…Oh, Kanda," he breathed, looking over at the scowling teenager. "This is absolutely _precious_!"

"What the fuck?" He stood up. "Does it suck or does it suck, brat?"

"This is…adorable!" The British boy hopped from behind his seat. "I have _got_ to show Lenalee!" He ran into the house, a grin on his face.

"What? No!" Kanda rushed after him, practically tripping over his own feet trying to catch up. He hopped up the stairs in one clean leap, eyes scanning the kitchen immediately.

The sound of laughter from the living room upped his paranoia to indescribable levels.

"Damn it, dickweed," he snarled, stepping into the room. "You're itching for a fresh one, aren't you?"

Lenalee shushed him, a large smile on her face. "Aww," she cooed, reading over the paper. "This is just _too_ cute, like, for real!"

"I know, right?" Allen laughed. "They are going to be so surprised that he cared!"

"You have _got_ to use this speech! It's so down!"

Kanda snatched his paper back, and prepared to tear it into shreds. "Fuck this," he muttered.

Allen rolled his eyes. "Don't get so fagged, Kanda," he said, grabbing the older teenager's wrist. "It's a great speech…rather unexpected and ridiculously sweet in places, but it's perfect." He smiled. "Just use it, they won't care."

"…Brat." The Japanese teenager loosened his grip on the paper. "If I get _one_ fucking comment, I'm kicking your ass first." He stalked back towards the garage, paper still in hand.

Lenalee bit her bottom lip, smiling hard. "He is _so cute_," she sighed, crossing her arms underneath her bust. The bracelets on her arms jangled melodically. "Did you work out the sheet music?"

"Yes." Allen sat down on the couch, breathing in relief. "I just might have to bring my synth. Some of the sounds only work with the electronic feel."

"Well, if you have to." She sat next to him. "Although, I think it sounded great without the synth."

"Hmm?"

"Actually, I think _we_ sound great period." Lenalee grinned. "We're going to go far, Allen, you've gotta believe it."

"Hmm…" Allen stared forward. "…But, what about Kanda and Lavi?"

"What about them?"

"Aren't they going to, well, _university_ and such?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "Why don't you ask them yourself?"

"I don't think so." The white-haired boy looked around. "Where _is_ Lavi?"

"He said he was doing valedictorian stuff, but he's probably doing lamer stuff. I hope I don't get to be valedictorian next year."

"I'm sure he'll make it work, with him being Lavi, of course."

* * *

May 15th, 1985.

"Hey guys!" Lavi greeted, standing in front of the cafeteria table they usually sat at. "How's it hanging?" A plastic-wrapped outfit hung off his folded arm, and a graduation cap was twirled lazily on his finger.

"We're just fine," Lenalee answered, looking up from her lyrics for the class selection. "What's up with you, Red?"

"Oh, nothing," the redhead plopped in the seat next to Allen, who leaned over his music with an almost obsessive slump. "Just freaking out, for sure. I see a heart attack in the near future."

"What?"

"I'm, eh, I'm hella' paranoid." Lavi sighed, scratching beneath his bandana. "It just hit me, I'm gonna have to talk about this place, that I probably won't come back to, and I'm gonna have t' do it in front of my Granddad. You know how he feels about this shit, and he don't like it at all."

"Why?" Allen asked, looking up at the older teen.

"He ain't too fond of crowds, being a total _bunk_ most of his life. The old man doesn't understand how I do it, and what he doesn't understand, if he can't find it in a book, he decides that he hates it."

"What a…odd man."

Lavi barked a laugh. "Brit, you don't know the _half_ of it." He yawned, covering his mouth. "I kinda wish it was the twenty-fourth already, just so I can get this shit _over_ and done with."

"Holy shit, first time I'm agreeing with you," Kanda muttered, walking up from behind Allen and Lavi. A plastic-wrapped gown also hung off his arm, and his cap was clutched tightly in his hand. "Those zeeks don't know what the hell they're talking about."

"What are you whining about _now_?" Allen asked, exasperated.

"Shut the fuck up, because I'm not whining. Loser." The guitarist sat next to Lenalee. "They want me to cut my hair—"

Lenalee choked on the air, and Allen felt his mind shut down for a moment.

Lavi looked utterly horrified. "Dude, Yuu, did you actually agree?"

"What? Hell _no_!" Kanda patted the front of his hair that was brushed back into his usual ridiculously long ponytail. "I gave them a clutch Hi Guy and walked away. Maybe I won't be salutatorian if I keep this up."

"Dude, you're gonna be salutatorian. There are only, like, two weeks left in school. They're never gonna give you up."

"Never gonna let _you_ down." Lenalee agreed.

Allen frowned. "…Two weeks? And then it will be summer vacation?"

"Yep," Lavi replied with a lazy smile. "Then we'll be home free!"

* * *

May 23rd, 1985.

Lenalee stared at Lavi, who tapped his fingers on his knees with an obsessive compulsivity. "Are you, like, _okay_?"

The redhead looked at her, surprised. "Who, me?" He grinned. "I'm _killer_, seeing as how I'm graduating and shit tomorrow and damn, yeah, I think I'm having a panic attack."

Komui smacked Lavi, rolling his eyes behind his rectangular glasses. "You are too dramatic," he said airily, combing through the thick red hair of the one-eyed teenager.

"I _know_ you are not talkin' about me when you look in a mirror everyday. Ow!" The comb hit a particularly bad knot. "Quit that!"

"When was the last time you combed through your hair, boy?" Komui demanded, jerking the comb through roughly.

Lavi let out a pained cry, tears leaking from his eye. "Fuckin' _A_, would you stop that?" he complained, rubbing his scalp. "And, uh, it's been a while since I really, _really_ went through my hair with a comb, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, I can _tell_."

"Ow! _Shit_!"

In the living room, Allen was practicing the song on the piano, Kanda sitting on the couch next to him.

"Speed it up," Kanda instructed, eyes closed as he slumped in relaxation. "You play too slow."

"No, you just work too fast." Allen replied easily, not breaking the movements of his fingers across the ivory keys. "I had to try most particularly hard on this song."

"Che'yeah right, Kid Pachelbello. What for?"

"It's _Pachelbel_. We're just two people, jerk." The music hit a high note, and the gloved fingers worked on playing the middle keys. "She has the song down to a bloody _T_, because there's only one vocalist in the lyrics. I, on the other hand, have to…ah…improvise. I have to play the piano as though it is an entire band, but you wouldn't be able to understand that. Jerk."

"It really just sounds like you're looking for a reason to bitch, but that's just me." Kanda smirked. "If this is as good as you get, then we can quit the bet now."

A sour note sounded from the piano. "Not a chance, git." Allen retorted, glaring at the older teenager. "You _will_ call me by my real name, I will make sure."

"Ha, alright."

"Jesus _fuckin'_ Christ!" Lavi shrieked loudly, causing the both of them to freeze. "You're doing this shit on purpose!"

"You did this to yourself," Komui's calmer voice replied jovially. "And you make fun of how fabulous _my_ hair is, when yours wouldn't know the definition if it punched you in the face wearing a nametag."

"That sounds kinda Yuu-ish—OW!"

* * *

May 24th, 1985.

Link smiled at Lenalee and Allen, who both dressed formally for the event. "Good evening," he greeted, nodding his head. "You're rather early."

"Yes, well, we're mega warped. The valedictorian and salutatorian are in the bathroom," Lenalee explained with a sheepish smile. "They really want to leave a good impression."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," Allen agreed, grinning. "Lavi's gelling his newly straightened hair and Kanda's, uh, washing out his dirty mouth?"

"Hmm…" Link hummed, looking towards the quickly filling auditorium. He cocked an eyebrow. "Clearly everyone feels like starting early today. The program doesn't officially begin until seven, and its five thirty."

"We really just want to get this shit over with," Lavi breathed, coming up behind his two friends. His medium-length red hair was slicked back stylishly, with the shade of the hair darker red than usual. He placed a hand on Allen's shoulder, smiling. "It's been four years, pimple-face. I don't think we can wait another minute."

The vice principal shook his head, a smile twitching on his lips. "I've always wanted to rebuke you for that ridiculous nickname," he murmured.

"You'll get your chance, VP."

Kanda, dressed neatly in a pressed white buttoned shirt and black slacks, walked up to the group. "When is this shit over with?" he grumbled, tying his hair back in a low ponytail.

"It hasn't even started," Link deadpanned. He grimaced. "Yuu, did you even create a speech?"

Allen and Lenalee shared a look of glee, while Lavi leaned forward in interest.

"Speech?" Kanda scowled. "Yeah, I have a speech."

"I hope it's…_suitable._ There will be parents and children in the audience."

"'_There will be parents and children in the audience_,'" the senior mimicked cruelly, snorting in an offended manner. "Big deal. I know what I'm doing, hoser."

"Does he ever realize who he's talking to?" Allen asked Lenalee, an eyebrow cocked in surprise. "It's almost like he treats everyone in an equal, rude way."

"He doesn't bash girls, I know that much."

The blond man sighed. "Just a few more hours," he muttered, looking at his wristwatch. He glanced at the two seniors, who stood next to each other, conversing. "You should put on your gown and cap at this point."

"In this hot-ass auditorium?" Lavi pulled at his shirt in the abdomen area. "You've _got_ to be psyching me, man."

* * *

Link stepped to the podium, his face an expression of serious intent. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began. "I am the vice principal, Howard Link, of Hampton High School. Welcome to the graduation of the class of 1985."

There was light applause from the audience. Lavi yawned from his seat near the back of the stage, where Kanda and a few other students sat with him.

Behind the stage, Lenalee breathed in and out slowly. "Well Allen, do you think you can do it?" she asked with a forced cheer.

Allen bit his bottom lip nervously. He glanced at Kanda, and swallowed back the lump in his throat. "Y-yes," he replied with a slight tremor. "I believe I am."

"Why're we getting so hyped over a small-time crowd like this?" the Chinese girl asked quietly. "We were just fine at those clubs."

"I think it's because it's so formal." The white-haired boy replied, hands behind his back. "The urge to not bodge up is, well, rather disorientating."

"Huh?"

"—and so," the vice principal was still talking. "I introduce the valedictorian of this year's senior class, Lavi Ja—"

"No need for formal intros, VP," Lavi interrupted, standing up smoothly. His robe hung off his frame loosely, and his hat was perched atop his red hair. "I can do it myself."

He stepped up to the podium, holding two fingers up to his forehead in greeting. "Hey there," he started, grinning. "I'm Lavi, the valedictorian of the class of 1985. That just means that I'm so smart I can't even help my smart-assed comments." His grin dropped into a small smile. "I've been at this school for four years. What does that mean to me? That's time I'll never get back, but it's also time I wouldn't trade for the world. I'm going to miss those vandalized hallways, those bogus lockers that _never_ really worked for some reason, the rad teachers," he waved at Johnny, who gave him an overenthusiastic thumb up in reply. "And most importantly, I'm going to miss the _vice principal_, Mr. Howard Link."

Lenalee wiped at her eyes. "…This is so K-RAD…" she sniffled.

Allen blinked. "He actually called Link by his real name. That is _amazing_."

"Now, the principal, he's pretty awesome too," Lavi flashed a cheesy smile towards the seated man. "But Link always made sure I was on track with some _trippendicular_ stalking, and I wanna say thanks. But, I'm also going to reflect on the more _awesome_ events in my four years. Like the stink bomb debacle of '84." There was a rise of laughter among the students. "And don't forget the time Kanda slam-tackled the football coach. Isn't that bunk still in the hospital?"

"In a coma, dipshit." Kanda grumbled. Then he paused, snapping his fingers in realization. "I meant, uh, dumbwad. Or something."

"Right, right. Whatever." The redhead looked back at the crowd. "So, yeah. For the future, we're gonna kick…awesome." He shrugged. "After all, we've got the potential. Now all we have to do is go up, and show the world what the class of 1985 is made of!" He pumped his fist in the air, whooping. The applause was deafening, which automatically made Kanda scowl.

Lavi turned, winking (or so it might have been with only one eye) at Link, and he sat down unceremoniously.

Kanda made a grunt of disapproval. "How much of that was bullshit?" he asked.

"Let's try…all of it. But, fuck it, I gave them what they wanted, right? Besides, it's your turn now."

"And now for our salutatorian of 1985, Yuu Kanda," Link announced, waving the Japanese teenager to the podium.

Kanda growled, arms crossed defiantly.

Lavi laughed. "Knock 'em dead, tiger," he whispered, nudging the older senior.

"…Fuck it," The Japanese eighteen-year-old stood up and stalked to the podium. Link patted him on the shoulder in sympathy, but he just shrugged the man off. He scowled. "Yuu Kanda, salutatorian of the class of 1985."

There was a fairly masculine squeal in the background, with a man exclaiming, "That's my boy!"

Kanda clenched the wooden podium harder. "In all my _four years_ of going to this school," he grounded out. "I've gone through harassment, suspensions, detentions, _more_ harassment, stupidity, revoked privileges, and so much _crap_ it isn't even funny." He glared. "And it pisses me off to know that I'll never get to do most of that _crap_ again—so, I guess I'm really going to…miss…this school. I kind of…liked…the hallways and the psycho teachers." LeJeune waved his hand with an enthusiasm not mandatory. "And the people, because Christ knows they aren't gonna miss me. Or something. Look, I can't do this—can I sit down now?"

There was much clapping from the audience once Link nodded his head, but the majority of the student body attending the event just stared forward, unable to truly process what had just happened with the one student that was voted 'Worst Disposition' in the yearbook.

Kanda flopped down in his seat, rubbing his temples. "At least I won't have to do that shit again," he said in a relieved tone.

"Ace ending to a radical four years," Lavi said cheerfully, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"And now," Link said sternly. "Before the presenting of the diplomas, we have the class selection, which will be performed by underclassmen Lenalee Lee and Allen Walker."

Lenalee elbowed the younger boy. "We've got to go!" she insisted, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him along. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"N-no!" Allen stammered, totally having second thoughts. "Not at all!"

The duo walked on stage and faced the audience. "Good evening!" Lenalee greeted, a bright smile on her face. "We're really honored that we'll be able to play the senior class selection for you today, because we worked _really_ hard on it!"

"Beautiful!" Komui cried, standing up and clapping.

Kanda rolled his eyes. "You'd think it was _her_ graduation with the shit he's pulling," he drawled quietly. Allen looked back to smirk in agreement, and he nodded his head towards the electronic keyboard on the side. "You ready to suck, brat?"

"Oh," the British boy breathed, smiling. "Not at all."

"So, now we will perform a cover of _Gold_ by Spandau Ballet!" The singer motioned for Allen to sit at the piano as she removed the microphone from the podium's stand. There was short applause as the boy scurried to the keyboard, sitting down gracefully and brushing his white hair away from his eyes.

He began by keying the beginning notes softly, staring down carefully at his moving fingers.

"_Thank you for coming home,_" Lenalee sang into the microphone, eyes closed. "_Sorry that the chairs are all worn,  
I left them here, I could've sworn—  
These are my salad days  
Slowly being eaten away  
Just another play for today…  
Oh, but I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you!  
Nothing left to make me feel small  
Luck has left me standing so tall—  
Gold!_" Allen played the notes louder with a quick tap, adding a new rhythm to the song._  
"Always believe in your soul!  
You've got the power to know  
You're indestructible!  
Always believe in you, 'cause you're  
Gold!  
Glad that you're bound to return  
There's something I could have learned  
You're indestructible—always believe in…" _

Kanda kept his eyes on Allen the entirety of the song, mouth set in a straight line.

Lavi nudged him. "You keep that up," he teased. "Someone's gonna think you've got a crush on him."

"Yeah, kind of like you." The Japanese teen punched him on the shoulder. "And quit touching me, hoser."

"I don't have a _crush_," Lavi muttered, offended.

"It doesn't even sound like you believe yourself." Kanda snorted. "Loser."

"_Now I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you!_" Lenalee was still singing, the microphone close to her lips. "_And my love is like a prison wall  
But you could leave me feeling so tall…  
Gold!  
Always believe in your soul!  
You've got the power to know  
You're indestructible!  
Always believe in you, 'cause you're  
Gold!  
Glad that you're bound to return  
There's something I could have learned  
You're indestructible—always believe in  
Gold!_" The piano notes were played softly until they faded out, and Allen sighed in relief as he stood up, cracking his fingers. The congregation all stood and clapped loudly, many cheers among the loud sounds.

Lenalee grinned at her partner, looping in her arm with his. "You were tagging, to the max!" she said excitedly.

"What?" Allen really didn't understand the majority of American slang.

"You were really cool. That was _great_, especially when you made that mini-solo after the chorus. We totally blew them away!"

"But what about Kanda?"

"What about him?"

"Yeah, what about me, _brat_?" Kanda smirked cruelly.

Allen was offended. "You said you'd call me by my real name!" he complained.

"Only if you kicked ass."

"And he _kicked ass_!" Lavi spoke up, yawning. He frowned. "C'mon Yuu, give up. You lost the bet."

"No. I didn't."

Link glanced at the two underclassmen. "You can go down now," he said. "Now we're just going to begin giving out the diplomas."

Levellie stood up at that, walking to the podium. "Your performance was great," he said to Allen with a smile. "I'd love an encore."

"Okay?"

"C'mon Al, let's go sit with Komui!" Lenalee said, tugging at his hand.

"Right, Komui."

* * *

Allen didn't recognize any of the people in the auditorium after the ceremony. Lavi pulled him excitedly through the crowd, and they stopped in front of a small pale man smoking a cigarette with ease. Eyeliner was heavily applied, and he sported an odd ponytail at the top of his head.

Lavi clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disdain. "Granddad," he said in a scolding tone. "You aren't _allowed_ to smoke in school, old man."

"Like you don't do it, little bastard," his grandfather answered easily.

The redhead rolled his eye, and patted Allen's shoulder. "Granddad, this is Allen Walker," he introduced with a grin. "He's, like, British. Al, this is my Granddad. He's, uh, not British."

"Hello," Allen greeted with a smile, holding out his hand. "How do you do?"

"Fine." The small man eyed him. "You're Marian's kid, aren't you?"

"I'm his _nephew_," the fifteen-year-old corrected, his smile twitching. "I would rather play in traffic than to be that twit's son."

"Huh." The man snorted. "You're a riot. I'm Bookman. Back in the day, Marian and I shared a few drinks."

"A few?" How _old_ was his uncle, now that he thought about it.

"On my side of the coin." Bookman smirked. "That man can really drink a funk under the table."

"Right." Allen sighed. "He is really quite the embarrassment."

Lavi looked around lazily, and grinned when he caught sight of his friend. "Hey!" he called. "Yuu! Come on over!"

Kanda, still donning the graduation outfit as well, glanced at him with a scowl. "Quit _harassing_ me!" he snapped to the sandy-haired man next to him, and he briskly walked towards the redhead and his company.

"Yuu, my boy!" the man whined, following him. "Your speech, it touched my _heart_!"

"The only thing that should be touching your heart is an _attack_, jive geezer!"

"My boy, I know you're so distraught that your brothers couldn't make it, but—"

"What the _fuck_ are you _talking_ about?" Kanda shook his head. "Just, shut up. Please."

"Noise tried, but something came up at his club," the man continued without missing a beat. "And Daisya had to go to work. Chaoji really wanted to come too, you know. He adores you!"

"He's a fucking space cadet. That man can never pay attention!"

Lavi patted Allen's shoulder to get his attention, and he pointed at the bickering pair. "That's Yuu's foster dad," he explained, pointing at the stubble-brushed man. "Froi Tiedoll. I think he knows your uncle too."

"Is there _no one_ who does not know Cross?" the gray-eyed boy demanded.

Bookman laughed in a raspy tone. "That man made friends like prostitutes made money."

"Your comparison feels really _redundant_ to me." Allen commented, sighing.

"Oh, you'd better believe it."

Allen laughed, shaking his head. "I'm going to go to the bathroom," he spoke up, moving away from the group.

"Don't ditch us!" Lavi called. "We're going out after this shit!"

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied, waving once.

Walking towards the bathrooms down the hall, Allen kept up a constant smile as several people—graduates and visitors alike—stopped him to comment on his playing.

"Fuckin' A," Andrew said with a wide grin. "That was better than any thing I could'a tried! Hell, I feel like I can learn how to play from you!"

"Oh," Allen replied, laughing. "Not at all. You have more experience, you must see."

"What? With how _you_ played? Now that was just _solid_." The eleventh-grader looked amazed. "How long have you been playing?"

"Six months, give or take." The British teenager continued on down the hall, his smile beginning to ache.

But, before he could get to the male's restroom, he had to stop at the ladies' because there was an oddity that was rather distracting.

A short, blond man with a long ponytail stood in front of the door, staring forward worriedly.

"…Sir." Allen said suddenly, snapping his fingers to catch the man's attention. The blond man started, and looked at the fifteen-year-old in surprise. Allen shook his head. "…You look like a verifiable pervert."

"No!" the man exclaimed, holding up his hands. "I'm just looking for a girl!"

"Clearly."

"But I wasn't going to _go_ into the bathroom—"

"I'd hope not."

"—as much as I was going to wait for her…damn, I sound kinda bogus."

"Very much so." Allen chuckled. "Who are you looking for?"

"Ah, a girl named Lenalee Lee?"

"She's in the auditorium."

"Thanks, buzz!" the man practically ran back to the auditorium, his ponytail flying behind him.

Allen grimaced.

He hoped that really wasn't a pervert, else he'd feel _really_ bad for leading him to her.

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to the kittens, all of which have deceased.

There's a better world out there, and even though you probably can't read this, we're sure you're there now. :D

I actually enjoyed writing this chapter very much. LeJeune was a personal favorite. (If you don't know who he is, then, I dunno, pretend he's an OC, even though he isn't) I never understood why Frenchmen choose to teach Brit Lit, of _all_ subjects. D: The speeches were thought up after I called up four ex-seniors (two of which were valedictorian at their graduations) and asked what made their statements special. Kanda's was the best to write out.

Apology statement for my BAD FRENCH:

Nella, molesté su lengua. Me disculpo, pero tuve que hacerlo. La lengua francesa, habría venido a esto. ¿Mi malo?

Divva, ich entschuldige mich. :D Ich muss haben getötet Ihre Sprache. Es gibt keine nette Weise, das zu sagen, aber die spanische Sprache ist die beste Sprache danach Englisch.

To anyone who speaks German, HA HA. A WINRAR IS YOU. ENGLISH IS A GERMANIC LANGUAGE. YOUR POP-UPS MEAN NOTHING TO ME.

Babelfish would be, like, IDK your BFF at this point. :D

But, seriously, I had to consult the French teacher at my school whom I hate to learn some of that shit. He scares the living hell out of me, popping out of bathrooms and closets shouting things like "BONJOUR" and I'm always like "D: NO HABLO LA LENGUA FRANCESA" and he's all "lol owned"

HA HA HA if you hate Cross then lol at next chapter. And I'm avoiding Lavi's last name like _hell_, oddly enough. D:


	18. Hyperactive!

_EIGHTEEN_

"I feel so horrible," Allen groaned, hitting his head lightly on the back of the passenger seat in Kanda's van. "He was standing in front of the _ladies_' restroom! And I gave him the blasted go-ahead."

"So what if you totally led a pervert to Lenalee?" Lavi replied, shrugging. "Big deal. Komui'll deck him if he gets, like, five feet around his creep radar."

"Creep radar?" Kanda repeated with narrowed eyes on the dark road. "On _him_? That shit should be going off twenty-four seven."

"You are such a jerk." The white-haired teenager turned his head to look out the windshield window. "Speaking of which, why isn't Lenalee with us?"

Lavi looked at him. "…Are you fucking _serious_?" he demanded, eye wide. "Lenalee? Coming with us? To where we're going? Komui'll murder us so fast Jack the Ripper will feel the burn."

"Hmm." Allen hummed in thought, and let out a small yelp as the van suddenly made a detour into rougher road. "I don't have a seat back here, twit!"

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda replied easily. "Because I really don't care."

"When I learn how to drive—"

"What'll you do, brat? Run me over? Che'yeah right." He made an abrupt right turn, smirking at the pained shout from the youngest band member. "You should keep on trying to graduate, kid. Now that me and Lover Boy are gone, you've only got Lenalee left, right?"

Allen planted his foot on the wheel hump and stretched out his body. "Even though you wag about on my _not_ graduating, I already know you'll miss it." He huffed. "By the way, it's 'Lover Boy and _I_', not 'me and Lover Boy'."

"_Not me and Lover Boy_," Kanda mimicked cruelly, and he purposely drove over bumpier road. "Jesus fuckin' _Christ_ you piss me off when you open that mouth of yours."

Lavi suddenly grinned.

"Bag your face, Cyclops. I didn't mean it like that, hoser."

"What the fuck? Can you see into my mind now?"

"As if. You're a creep, Cyclops. A Grade-A Big Time creep, and I know how creeps think."

"Because you look in the mirror every morning?" Allen asked, grinning.

Kanda glared forward. "Shut it, dickweed. Because I went to that fucking _school_ for four goddamn years that I'll never get back." He gritted his teeth in anger, hands clenching the wheel tightly. "Link, he was a total creep."

"Dude, do you _miss_ high school already?" Lavi asked, cocking an eyebrow. "It's only been, like, two hours. You're a mad riot, Yuu!"

"God, neither of you dorks know how to shut the hell up." The van came to a screeching stop in front of a well-lit house, various people loitering about the lawn and going inside the home. "We're here, brat, Cyclops. Get the fuck outta my ride."

Allen looked out the window blinking. "You told me we were going to a buffet," he said accusingly, glaring at Lavi. "This looks, well, it doesn't look much like a bloody restaurant."

"Gimme a break, baby," the redhead replied, popping open the back of the van. "I had to get you here somehow. And, just so happens, I know how much you love food."

The British boy was overly offended at the intended betrayal. Of course, he did have a weak spot for food (better yet, a gaping hole) and he did agree to come. He scowled as he stepped out the back, and he brushed off the seat of his pants. Besides, he was already here, so he couldn't do much else anyway.

And it hit him. "Don't call me _baby_, for the Lord's sake."

"Jesus Christ kid, it isn't that serious," Kanda stated in a bored tone, stretching his arms.

"I was promised _food_, jerk," the younger teenager muttered, crossing his arms. "You haven't the slightest idea of what that means to me, now do you?"

Lavi laughed. "Hey, I bet they're packin' a few snacks in here. It is a party, like cereal."

"Cereal? What? _Party_? Where the blast have you taken me?"

"Oh. Uh. Toma's graduation party?"

Allen looked affronted. "You brought me to a _graduation _party? When I'm only in the tenth—"

"Eleventh, actually Brit. You're in the eleventh now."

"—eleventh, tenth, I don't give a bloody fiddle what! I still haven't _graduated_."

The Japanese eighteen-year-old scowled. "You're only bitching because of _that_? What the _fuck_ man—so are you trying to tell me that in that buggin' country of yours, you only go to a party if you're fucking _qualified_?" He rolled his eyes. "Really, brat, watch that mouth of yours."

"_Buggin'_ country?" Allen demanded, hands on his narrow hips. "Why I _never_—"

"Shut up while you're ahead, because everything out your mouth is gonna be _bitchin'_, and not in the rad way."

Lavi chuckled nervously. "Buddies, buddies," he chastised. "Cool out. Let's not get all, uh, _violent_ on graduation night! So, Al, baby, here you go!" He removed the graduate cap from his head and placed it atop of his younger friend's. Straightening it a few times, he grinned at the result. "Check you out, Brit! Wouldn't be able to tell you weren't a graduate if you weren't so—"

"So fucking short?" Kanda finished. "Kid, seriously, write a letter to puberty. You need to get taller, because I'm bored of making fun of your height."

The British teenager kept his mouth shut as he refrained from letting out the thousand and one curses in various languages that he knew from his uncle. He smiled instead. "Thank you Lavi," he said happily. "I appreciate the way you go out of your way to make me feel included."

"Ha," the redhead breathed, smiling sincerely. "It's no problem, Brit. I just got a knack for seeing you smile."

"Mush," Kanda grumbled, scowling. "Gay, flirty _mush_."

Lavi laughed, patting his best friend on the shoulder. "Quit acting so crunchy," he teased.

"Whatev'. I'm going inside."

* * *

"Your piano shit was _fucking A'_," the fifth graduate of the night commented to Allen, patting the fifteen-year-old on the top of his borrowed cap. "Makes me want t' come back for your own grad day, jus' t' see if you pull it off as wicked as you did ours."

"Ah, thank you," Allen replied with a smile. "I doubt I'll be doing piano at my own graduation though."

"Huh, that'll be bogus." The graduate walked away drowsily towards the snack table.

The pianist let out a relieved sigh as he leaned back in the couch cushions in the living room. Taking a sip of the red punch, Allen glanced around the room in an effort to find someone he knew, like an old classmate.

He spied Kanda at the punch bowl, and he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion towards what _Kanda_ was doing there in the first place.

Allen took another drink of the punch.

"Dude, what punch?" another graduate laughed, knocking him on the shoulder playfully. She stifled her snickers for the moment. "You're, like, drinkin' nothin' right now."

Gray eyes looked down into his paper cup, and he frowned at how the older teenager was right.

"Don't worry, Piano Man," the graduate assured shrewdly. "Kanda's walkin' up with a cup for you right now."

"Really?" That was rather unbelievable.

"Really." The teenager waved. "What's up, Kanda?"

"Shut the fuck up. Go fall off a cliff." Kanda looked at Allen. "Here, take this." He roughly handed a new cup of punch to the younger teenager, who narrowly avoided getting the red liquid on his white shirt.

"Thank you, Kanda," Allen replied, bringing the cup's edge near his lips.

He paused.

"This smells…oddly enough like vodka." The years with Cross have done him some good, he mused with a grimace.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I spiked the punch." Kanda shrugged, sitting down next to Allen.

The white-haired boy's eyes widened. "Why the bloody hell would you do _that_? This was the only thing I had to drink since I'm _underage_, you prick!"

"And _now_ starts the bitching." The eighteen-year-old rolled his eyes, passionately. "I did it because the drink was boring, and people bother me less when drunk."

"What kind of bodged up _logic_—"

"You don't have to drink it, you know. Quit being such a brat."

Allen handed him back the cup, which the Japanese teenager brought to his lips easily. "Jerk."

"Brat."

"Brit!" Lavi swung his legs over the couch and slid down into place on the other side of Allen. He downed a cup of the spiked punch, and Allen shook his head. "They're ordering a pizza, so I told them to go all out for an extra-mega-tubular large."

"I hope they're ordering, well, seventeen of those then," the fifteen-year-old replied, his stomach gurgling at the thought of food.

"Like you'd eat _that_ much. I know you can dig in a hell'a lot of food," Kanda snorted. "But a_ whole _pizza? You've got to be a joke."

"Really? Hmm, then maybe you should start laughing."

* * *

"Stop eating," Kanda grounded out, his expression bleak as he kept his eyes on a gooey string of cheese leading from the greasy slice of pizza to the younger teen's mouth. "Or, I'll do something really freaked."

Lavi, who was hungry himself, reached for a slice. Allen's black vans kicked his arms away lightly. "Jeez, Brit!" he whined, sticking out his tongue. "It's not like I ain't hungry over here or anything!"

"You brought me here against my will," Allen answered easily with a smile. He licked his lips. "I'm eating all of this pizza."

"Bull!" Lavi huffed, and he grinned. "You can have your damn pizza."

Kanda scowled. "You're about to do something fucked up—"

"Who? Me? Get out!" the redhead leaned closer to the white-haired boy's face with a smirk. "I'm just looking for a bite to eat."

"Don't fucking do it—"

Lavi bit the crusted end of the pizza slice in Allen's hand, and the younger teenager's eyes widened in mortification. The one-eyed graduate took another bite, inching closer to Allen's lips, and kept up the gray-eyed gaze.

Kanda shot out of his seat. "I'm going to take a drag," he said suddenly, clearly wanting to be anywhere but there. He rushed out, practically throwing the people around him out of his way.

Allen swallowed the food in his mouth in a hurry, expression shocked. "What kind of fagged move was _that_?" he demanded, grimacing. "It was so Mikk-like I could hardly believe myself."

"Please, your creep would be much more forward," Lavi replied, snatching a cup of punch from a bypassing tipsy party-goer.

"You can't get much more forward than eating the pizza from my _hands_."

"I can easily just kiss you in a Tyki-move," the green-eyed teenager retorted, grinning around his cup. "But, I know how much you hate alcohol."

"Uh huh," Allen hummed in agreement, and bit into the pizza slice unthinkingly. He glanced at the older teen's smiling face. "…I just participated in an indirect kiss again, didn't I?"

"With _tongue_."

"Delightful."

* * *

Kanda kicked at Lavi, who sprawled over Allen's legs. "Wake up, burn out," he said sternly. "It's almost midnight, so we've gotta motor."

The redhead latched closer to Allen, who rolled his eyes. "Lavi, please get up," he asked as nicely as possible. "I can't feel my legs."

"That's what _she_ said," Lavi murmured, grinning. He yawned, though, waving his hand in dismissal. "I don't wanna move."

"And I don't wanna drive, but I'm not bitching," the oldest teen snapped, kicking him harder.

"You'd be surprised." Allen said.

"Shut up, no one is amped for your opinion. Now, get the fuck up and help me cart this loser to the car."

The fifteen-year-old stared at him with a look of bleary deadpan. "You _can't_ be bloody serious," he replied. "I'm not nearly as strong as you're thinking, Kanda."

"Nope, you're stronger." Kanda grabbed Lavi by the shoulders. "Now grab Cyclops by the shoulders, and let's bounce."

"I am _not_ that strong, Kanda!"

"I'm no fuckin' guidance counselor, but I'm still going to tell you to put your mind to it." He paused. "Wait, my bad. That'll need a, y'know, _mind_."

"I hate you sometimes." Allen hooked his arms underneath Lavi's shoulders, and heaved the body up. "How much does he bloody _weigh_?"

"Less than you, Pac Man. Let's get moving."

The two, after much difficult maneuvering and laughter from the other party patrons, stumbled out into the warm May night air, Kanda swerving the slightest bit.

"Don't tell me you're bladdered," Allen said worriedly. "My father once told me to never ride with a drunk driver."

"Do I _look_ like I give a fuck about what your dad said? Jesus Christ, throw him in the back of the van."

Allen could not process why they were suddenly treating Lavi like a dead body, but didn't complain as they rolled him into the back of the van with some trouble.

"Fuck you too, Yuu," Lavi grumbled, rolling over for some source of comfort on the steel floor of the van. "Christ damn it."

"Get in the front, brat," Kanda said, jabbing a thumb towards the passenger side door. "Let's get you home."

"Right!" Allen grinned, climbing into the front seat with ease.

The ignition was started roughly, and the Japanese teenager stared forward for a while.

"…I'm not gonna crash," he finally said, looking over at the white-haired boy. "I'm not _that_ drunk."

"Either way, Lavi's more arseholed than you'll ever be right now."

"Hell yeah he is. I know my fucking limits."

Allen smiled, buckling in his seatbelt.

Although it was disheartening how he could really only have a civilized conversation with the older teenager when Kanda was incapacitated in some way.

"Quit smiling, you're freaking me out."

"You're just a paranoid bastard."

* * *

May 25th, 1985.

The one thing to edge at Allen's mind, as he flitted on the line between being awake and being asleep, was that there was something terribly wrong and it would only get worst as the day went on.

It began when he realized that he was being held in his sleep.

"Ha," someone, who was in his bed entirely unwelcome, breathed, the weak smell of alcohol hitting Allen's face harshly.

Gray eyes opened slowly, with bleary sight, and focused on a head of fiery red hair.

He froze. "Dear Lord!" Allen gasped, eyes widening.

"Be quiet," Lavi murmured, holding the white-haired boy closer to his body. "I'm still kind of smashed."

"Why are you in my _house_, let alone my bed?"

"Yuu didn't feel like taking me home, sooo I just, ah," he yawned, and pressed closer to the younger teenager. "I just crashed here. Didn't want to invade on your privacy and shit, but I was fuckin' _tired_, man."

"What the bloody _hell_—" and then, with a sliding drop of heat of _some sort_ to his lower stomach, something completely unprecedented happened, something that he probably could've live the rest of his life not knowing about.

Apparently, there was something poking at his thighs.

Allen practically shrieked as he pushed the older teenager off of him, trying to will the throbbing feeling in his lower stomach away. "What kind of shite is _that_?" he demanded, gesturing wildly to the older boy's lower body.

"What?" Lavi blinked. "Oh, shit, you felt that?"

"You've got a bloody _bona'_!" His accent was thick with the pronunciation of the word, and he slurred the 'er' like an 'ah'.

"Ah? We're all guys here, Al," the redhead replied cheerfully, and he wrapped his arms around Allen once more. "Besides, it's kinda your fault anyway."

"A stiffy is _my_ fault? Oh, I re_fuse_ to—" Allen stopped all motion as he heard the reverberating sound of footsteps coming towards his room.

He must've stopped breathing at some point.

"Al? Brit, dude, are you okay?"

"Good Lord, I have to _hide_ you!" Allen whispered fiercely, and he flipped Lavi over in a panic, straddling the older boy's hips.

"Jesus _Christ_ you're strong," Lavi said drowsily with a grin. "And, hey, we're already at third base? Sweet."

"Shut up!" How can a fifteen-year-old boy hide an eighteen-year-old high school graduate, he wondered idly.

His door swung open.

Allen slowly turned his head towards the doorway, and his breath hitched at the sight of his uncle.

A tall, imposing man with long red hair leaned on the door frame, wearing an unbuttoned open-chest white shirt and fitted blue jeans. Timcanpy was tucked underneath an arm, and smoke wafted from the cigarette in his mouth in thin wisps.

"Uh, nephew. Hey." The man greeted, cocking an eyebrow.

Allen sighed. "Uncle Cross."

"Huh." Cross Marian removed the cigarette, grimacing. "I leave for _two fucking months_," he muttered. "And suddenly my only nephew is banging boys in my house."

"What? You left me for more than _six_ months!" Allen complained, not moving from the top of Lavi. "And I'm not _banging_ him, for your general information!"

"Why the fuck are you so unappreciative?" Cross narrowed his hazel eyes. "Most teenagers would be jumping for damned joy at being left."

"You _ditched_ me!"

"I sent you money."

"Great job? Bugger all good _that_ did me!"

"The house is still here, right?"

"Why, yes, because I've been paying out of my own _pocket_. My father's trust fund, more accurately."

Lavi winced. "Hey, yeah, sorry to ruin your convo and stuff, but," he laughed nervously. "Could you stop moving so much over me?"

"What? Oh, my apologies."

Cross blew smoke in his direction. "Oh, and stupid nephew," he started, readjusting the overly happy yellow puppy in his arms. "What the fuck have you been feeding my dog? He's thirty pounds heavier than before!"

"Woof!" Timcanpy barked, wriggling.

Allen frowned, offended. "Tim's _my_ dog," he mumbled. "I love him more."

"Okay? I don't care." The red-haired man snapped his fingers in realization. "And what the hell happened to my favorite mug?"

Lavi and Allen, despite the awkward situation, had to share a grin.

The eighteen-year-old sat up suddenly, hissing at the friction. "Speaking of Yuu," he said. "Can I use your phone? I need to call him up to pick me up."

"Knock yourself out, boy," Cross replied, sticking the cigarette back in his mouth. He glared at Allen. "Come on, brat. We need to talk."

"About _what_?" Allen got off of Lavi's legs and jumped off his bed. He trotted after his uncle, who walked with long-legged strides. "The house is fine, I'm okay, and Timcanpy is healthy. What do we need to talk about?"

Lavi made a turn in the hall towards the bathroom, being wholeheartedly ignored by the arguing two.

"Where's my favorite mug?"

"What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything?"

The man turned around and knocked him on the head. "Don't backtalk me, brat," he threatened. "I'm still your uncle and damned guardian. And I want to know what happened to my mug, so start talking."

"Ah," How will he explain that a Japanese guitarist broke in through the window and knocked it over in his effort? "Hmm…"

"I don't have forever." Cross said in a bored tone. "Komui's harassing me enough as it is. I've got to go visit him today."

"You know Komui?"

The hazel-eyed man cocked an eyebrow. "Did I not just mention the man? What the fuck," he retorted. He huffed. "Back to my mug."

"Uhm—"

Cross did not look happy with his hesitation.

"Yuu broke your mug," Lavi replied, hopping down the stairs. He smirked. "Yuu Kanda."

"Sounds familiar. Huh." The red-haired man made a one-armed shrug. "Did you call your friend, boy?"

"Fer cear, sir. He'll be here in about thirty minutes, he says."

"Great. Brat," Cross waved his cigarette at Allen, who stood with his arms crossed. "Go make breakfast. I just got here, and I'm hungry."

* * *

Allen does not remember why he hasn't pushed his uncle down the stairs quite yet, especially as the man downed several shots of vodka in rapid subsequence.

"It's ten in the morning," he reprimanded with a frown, trying to mix the batter for biscuits without eating it himself. "Can't you wait until it's at least twelve to start your piss-up?"

"No." Cross frowned. "I thought you'd lose that stupid dialect of yours after a few months here."

Lavi looked devastated. "He has the best accent ever! It's, like, mad prep!"

"No, it's fucking annoying. Try talking like your boyfriend here, his accent doesn't get me narked."

"That's because he's American. I'm, well, I'm not _American_." He paused. "And Lavi isn't my boyfriend."

"Che'yeah right, brat. Tell me the same thing after you see what I saw in your room."

A loud, overly obnoxious knock came from the front door, and Allen jumped at the chance to get out of his uncle's presence.

Lavi perked up. "That must be Yuu," he said happily.

"Sit down, I'll get it!" The British teenager rushed to the door, and opened it joyously. "Kanda! How wonderful to see you!"

Kanda stared at him, thumbs hooked in his jean pockets. "Who the fuck're you?" he demanded, an eyebrow cocked. "I don't know why, but your face pisses me off more now than it did when the kid had it."

The smile twitched. "Please, come in," he said.

"No. I just came to pick up Cyclops and bounce."

"_Please_, come in. I have food."

"Okay? I'm not a fatass like you, _fatass_."

Allen's bare hands shot out and grabbed Kanda's hard bicep. "This is what happens when I try to be nice," he hissed, eyes narrowed. "My nerves are at their edge today, _Kanda_, because my drinking _twat_ of an uncle is back and apparently Lavi gets hard at the thought of me. Please, come inside, and _eat some food_."

Kanda, who was shocked at the sudden change of character, allowed himself to be dragged in. And then he realized that he was allowing himself to be pushed around by a kid shorter than him.

"Get your hands off'a me," he growled, smacking the younger teen's hands. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't _care_." Allen smiled at Cross, who walked into the living room idly. "Uncle, this is Yuu Kanda!" he pointed accusingly at the older teenager. "He broke your mug."

"What?" Kanda demanded.

"Huh…" Cross eyed the younger man, raising an eyebrow in thought. "You're Tiedoll's boy, aren't you?"

"Not my dad, so shut the hell up." The Japanese guitarist glared.

"I don't take that kind of talk from brats," the tall man replied easily, and he blew smoke languidly towards the eighteen-year-old. "Especially from Japs with better hair than my ex."

"What the fuck're you talkin' about?"

"I'm talking about you paying for a new mug." Cross said with a smirk. He turned to Allen. "It said 'World's Greatest Uncle', and was given to me from my own favorite nephew a few years ago." Allen rolled his eyes, knowing the truth behind that particular story.

Kanda blinked. "No."

"No 'you're not paying for a new mug' or no 'I'm not the World's Greatest Uncle'?"

"Both. I ain't paying for _shit_, and you're the worst uncle I've ever seen."

Cross's fingers twitched. "You're buying me a new mug," he stated.

"How about I buy you a new face? You're _really_ starting to piss me off."

The doorbell was rung, and Allen almost made a move to answer it, but his uncle held up a hand. "I'll get it this time," he said. "Anymore time in Betty's bullshit, it'll only screw itself over."

Lavi leaned an arm on Allen's shoulder and grinned. "Your uncle is _K-RAD_."

"What? No!" Allen looked offended at the very notion. "He's ridiculous."

"I heard that, brat." Cross opened the door.

And an arm shot out, grabbing the man by the mouth, and Cross was somehow dragged out.

The sound of the scuffle was louder than any words that could've possibly been spoken.

"Did…" Allen began, eyes wide. "Did someone just try to kidnap my uncle?"

Lavi laughed. "Excellent!"

The three rushed to the door, all squeezing through to get a good look at the action.

Apparently, Tyki Mikk thought it'd be smart or funny to make a kidnapping attempt. And he clearly got the wrong person.

"Allen?" the tall, pristine Portuguese man asked, looking up from his current captive. He frowned. "Who is _this_ geezer?"

Allen smirked, crossing his arms. "My uncle."

Cross grunted as he tried to pry the twenty-six-year-old man's grip from his neck. "Brat, nephew, whatever your name is," he growled. "Get me my gun."

Allen did not need to be told twice.

Tyki frowned. "Do you even have a gun license, old man?"

"Yes. Is my nephew legal? No. Now, let me go."

The man's arms loosened, and Cross straightened up, rubbing his neck gingerly. "What kind of crazy pricks are you fucking, brat?" he yelled inside the house.

There was the sound of falling metal, and Allen poked his head out Cross's bedroom window. "I'm not having _sex_ with anyone!"

"Yeah _right_." The red-haired man sniffed, insulted. He glared at Tyki. "What the fuck are you still doing here? I'll seriously shoot you if you spend twenty more seconds on my lawn."

Lavi started counting under his breath.

Kanda punched him.

"Right, whatever." Tyki looked up at Allen, and winked. "Check you out later, Beautiful!"

"Get the gun!" the one-eyed teen shouted.

"Too late." Kanda grumbled, flipping off the Portuguese man as he got into his Firebird. The singer grinned back with a wave as he pulled off with screeching tires.

Cross shook his head, scratching his hair idly. "It's too early for this shit," he grumbled, walking back inside. "I'm going to get drunk. Or something." He looked over at the two graduates. "You wanna join in?"

"Su—" Lavi looked up to see Allen gesturing with threatening hand motions. "—ure _not_." He chuckled nervously. "Let's leave."

"No, the brat promised me food, so I'm getting food." Kanda replied, huffing.

The hazel-eyed man frowned. "Is he fucking you too?"

Allen almost fell down the stairs.

He hated his uncle sometimes.

* * *

I really like this chapter for some reason. I don't know why, really. Maybe it's Cross. Because I liked the way he came out, including the verbal abuse. It might be Kanda, and his verbal abuse. Or perhaps it's Tyki, and his verbal…molestation. This chapter, it's packed full of Lavi/Allen, and I always feel bad because then I know I'm pissing off the Kanda/Allen fans and vice versa in reversa.

Now, I'm going to go back to writing my supar-long bitch of a gift one-shot, and then I'm off to convince Emi to get a FFN account. SHE'S IN YUR STORIES, LEAVIN REVIEWS haven't you noticed?

LOL I bet you're wondering how Lavi got rid of that stiffy of his! Your prerogative is never derogative! (Or, just use your imagination) (I mean, seriously, how else do you think it went away?) (If you were thinking willpower, then hot _damn_ were you incorrect.)

By the way, thanks everyone! All of your reviews and comments and PMs make writing this worth every minute, every ache in my fingers, and every throb of pain in my back. :D Please, give yourselves a hand of applause. You deserve it!


	19. Dance Hall Days

_NINETEEN_

May 26th, 1985.

For some reason, as inane and ridiculous as it was, Lenalee was completely enamored with Allen's odd uncle.

A disturbing example of love-at-first-sight, in his opinion.

"_That's_ your uncle?" she asked as Cross and her brother talked at the front door, a large smile on the Chinese man's face. "He's mad hot!"

"Urgh." Allen tried to speak, but it only came out as an indecipherable garble as he tried to even think of the horrible man as attractive. He could never understand how the man could get so many lovers without even blinking. "Uh, right. Sure."

"Is he single?"

"You aren't his type," the white-haired boy said quickly, and then recoiled at the distressed look on his friend's face. "I mean, you're too young. And too pretty. And too good for him."

Lenalee smiled. "You're such a laugh, Allen," she said with returned cheer. "But, for real, is he single?"

"I can't answer that. The last time I checked, he had more lovers than a bloody tart, and he costs half as much."

"You're just being bogus."

Maybe he was. Or maybe he was reasonably spiteful towards his elusive uncle.

"—so do you have any whiskey or what?" Cross was asking Komui as they walked further into the house. The red-haired man walked into the kitchen, pausing at the sight of Allen and Lenalee. The Chinese girl smiled brightly at him. "Uh, hey, whatever your name is—"

"It's Lenalee," she replied immediately. "Lenalee Lee."

"—whatever your name is," Cross repeated, waving a hand in dismissal. "You should know where the alcohol is, right?"

Allen threw a look of absolute horror at her, hoping to his Protestant god that she actually didn't.

"What? Oh, yeah, for sure."

And even if she did, maybe the shaking of his head would warn her to not give it to him.

"Can you give it to me?"

"Sure!"

"You are a right twat, uncle."

Cross graced him with a look, sitting in the chair at the dining room table across from him. "You're just a kid," he replied dryly. "You'll understand how whiskey works when you get older."

"You offered me a cigarette three times and tried to get me bladdered five times when I was ten." Allen narrowed his eyes. "I apologize if I might not appreciate getting drunk as an art, like you."

Komui walked in, eyeing the one-sided hostility with amusement. "Marian," the younger man scolded. "Don't tease Allen. He's a great kid."

"Who has had sex with, like, fifteen guys," the hazel-eyed man muttered, looking up to see if Lenalee had returned yet.

"You're exaggerating." But at the news that Allen was having relations with only men so far, Komui's expression and posture was far more relaxed. "I bet it's only Kanda."

"What? No!" Allen rejected quickly, eyes wide. "Never in my _life_!"

Cross snorted, pulling a cigarette out of his pants' pockets. "I caught him in bed with the one-eyed one," he told Komui in a conniving tone. "If I hadn't've walked in at that moment…hell, I know what would've happened. Thank god I came home before my poor nephew could lose what was left of his virginity."

Allen hated it when the man acted like he cared. "No, its okay, I've still got all of it."

Komui looked even more relaxed at that, and pulled out the chair next to the fifteen-year-old. "Allen, tell me," he began in a soft tone, the overhead lights in the dining room giving his rectangular glasses an eerie glare. "What about Lenalee? Has she been seeing any…_boys_?" he spat out the word as though the taste of it were horrible.

The British teen shook his head slowly, eyes wide. "No, Komui. I don't believe so."

"You should know, since she's _always_ talking about you." The Chinese man leaned closer with a smile, his long hair falling into the way of his glasses. "Is my precious little sister having…_sex_…with anyone?"

"Komui!" the outraged shriek from the man's younger sister caused Komui to practically jump back. Lenalee fumed with the glass bottle of vodka in her arms. "You are _such_ a dork! How could you ask _Allen_ a question like that?" She made a sound of frustration as she shoved the bottle at Cross, who took it enthusiastically.

Komui looked distressed. "I'm sorry!" he cried, holding his hands to his chest. "I mean, I'm only worried for your wellbeing! And, besides, there is no boy good enough for you!"

Lenalee glared. "Because of _your_ bogus crap, I'll _never_ get a boyfriend!" she threw her hands in the air, outdone, and stalked to her room, stomping loudly on the way up the stairs.

The Chinese man sat back down despondently, sighing heavily. "I was only trying to be a good father-figure," he muttered, raking his thin fingers through his inky black hair.

Cross shook his head, standing up to get a cup from the cabinet. "Teenagers hate that kind of shit," he stated with a confident air. Hazel eyes looked pointedly at Allen. "If you try to do _one_ thing that's good for them, they spazz the fuck _out_."

"You abandoned me!" the pale boy insisted, arms crossed. "And I had to resort to my father's _trust fund_ to keep everything in order!"

"See? Nothing but bitching." The tall man poured the vodka into a cup. "And I didn't abandon you, brat. I was away. On business."

"You are a complete _arse_," Allen said with a smile, and he stood up from his seat. "I'm going to check on Lenalee, because every single time I spend an extended amount of time with you, I get rather, well, _pissed_."

"If you touch Lenalee," Komui replied cheerfully. "You'll be wearing your spinal cord as a belt."

"Why? The brat's pants are too tight anyway," Cross pointed out. "Those jeans are cutting off his circulation to his brain. What the hell is wrong with kids these days?"

"I hate you _so much_." Allen responded.

He walked away at that, flicking his white bangs out the way of his eyes.

Cross and Komui watched him go, the latter with wide eyes behind his glasses.

"That's the angriest I've ever seen him get," the dark-haired man commented with a grin.

The red-haired man brought the cup to his lips. "The boy even walks like he's gay," he muttered around the glass rim.

* * *

Lenalee's room, as expected of her, was nothing but _boys_.

On her door, on the walls, even a few on the ceiling, were nothing but posters of men and boys that she deemed attractive.

Allen didn't really know how to react to Fonzie's eyes following him as he opened the door slowly.

"Lenalee?" he called quietly. "Are you all right?"

A pillow flew his way, and he dodged it by closing the door. "I'm going to guess you're still narked."

"I can't believe him!" the seventeen-year-old snapped, and Allen opened the door again, head poking around the other side. "I'm, like, going to be a Joanie all my life because of him! Ugh!"

"Now, now." The younger teenager chastised, walking in the room and closing the door gently behind him. "He was only looking out for you. Komui loves you, didn't you know?"

"Are you jiving me?" Lenalee demanded, looking up from her comforter. "I _know_ he loves me. Everyone and their dead grandma knows he loves me, but maybe there's such a thing like, well, too much love?"

Allen paused in thought, his gloved fingers tapping onto his denim-clad thigh. "Too much love?" He smiled, laughing underneath his breath. There was a ridiculous concept if he ever heard of one. "You can never have too much love, Lenalee."

"Try saying the same thing when Komui's _your_ brother."

"And try saying the same thing after your father dies and Cross becomes _your_ legal guardian," the white-haired boy retorted, crossing his arms. The long-haired girl blinked at him, surprised at how Cross could not be fitted for something. "There's no such thing as _too much love_. If anything, you should be looking for a little more than what he's giving you." Allen shrugged, grinning. "I would probably stick close to him, because nobody lives forever."

Lenalee hid a grin underneath her pillow and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, you say things that are, like, older than Kanda," she said teasingly.

"A five-year-old can say things older than Kanda."

"Oh, that's totally crucial." She snickered. And then she paused, glaring at the younger teenager. "Wait, you actually willingly _gave_ my brother the 411 on my sex life!"

Allen yelped as he was pelted with several pillows and a few books. "It wasn't my fault!" he cried, falling over on the ground. "He was giving me this _look_, I swear, it was like—God _Blimey_ how many bloody pillows do you _need_—like he was dissecting my soul!"

"You are _such_ a story!"

The white-haired boy opened his mouth to retort, a gloved hand in the air, but an especially fluffed pillow got him right in the face. Surprised, he stumbled backwards into the closed door, with his back hitting David Bowie's shaded face.

Lenalee stared at him.

And, with a hand flying to cover to her mouth, she began laughing. Allen huffed, tossing the pillow weakly back at her, a smile lingering on his pale lips.

"You're a total clutch," she said, sitting up straighter in her bed. A few more snickers sneaked through. "It's like, you're so much easier to talk to than Kanda, and much more understanding than Lavi."

Allen didn't know whether being the type of guy that girls could talk to easily was a good or bad thing. "Kanda's conversations are much like talking with a rabid dog," he replied instead, standing up. "You can talk to him, but he won't understand, and he'll bite you only to spread the bloody madness about."

"…Right. You're a big time jerk sometimes." Lenalee smiled. She reached over her nightstand and clicked a button on a small radio. A smile lit up her face. "Oh! I think I hear someone we all love! Choice!" She slowly turned up the volume.

"Someone we _all_ love? Hmm…Oh, sorry, I'm really more au fait with Mozart more than I like Dexy's Midnight Runn—oh, blast it, is this who I think it is?" He frowned deeply in recognition.

"Okay, he's a creep. And a stalker." The Chinese girl paused in thought. "And really can't take a hint. Way too persistent. Mega weird. And maybe he's a lot more things." She bit back a squeal as the vocals began. "But he's _sooo_ hot!"

"_How can I be sure?_" Tyki Mikk of _Noah's Ark_ sang through the small speakers, and Allen rolled his eyes. "_When your intrusion is my illusion—  
How can I be sure?  
When all the time you changed my mind  
I asked for more and more…  
How can I be sure…?_"

As the instrumentals began, Allen leaned against the dresser, his thin arms crossed. "He can sing," he muttered. "He's ridiculously good-looking, and he's passionate."

"Why the hell is he so caught up with _you_?" Lenalee grumbled, and looked up quickly. "No offense! I'm just saying—"

"And I'm just saying it too." He shook his head. "The guy's barmy, I swear."

"_When you don't give me love—  
You give me pale shelter  
You don't give me love!  
You give me cold hands  
And I can't operate on…this failure  
When all I want to be is…  
…Completely in command._"

"Really, with a voice like that, he could grab whatever tart he wanted," the British teenager insisted.

"And he chose _you_," Lenalee replied teasingly. "So, what does that say about you?"

"That he needs glasses."

"_I've been here before  
There is no why, no need to try…  
I thought you had it all  
I'm calling you, I'm calling you  
I ask for more and more…  
How can I be sure…?_"

The deep voice faded out with the slow playing of the synthesizer on the radio. Allen shook his head, sighing heavily.

"Maybe I can talk some sense into that blinkered head of his. He really needs to realize that I'm too young. And not interested."

Lenalee opened her mouth to reply, but a knock at her door made her pause.

"Lenalee?" Komui called through the door. "Lenalee, uhm, listen, I'm really sorry about that—"

She threw a book at the door. "Go away!" she shouted. Allen stared at her incredulously, her abrupt actions making close to no sense to him.

The strangled sob from the man on the other side was heard, and he knocked some more. "I'm really, _really_ sorry!" he whined. "I was only looking out for your innocence! Can't you forgive me?"

"What?" Lenalee replied, a confused look on her face. "I already knew that. _Doy,_ I forgive you, but go away, I'm talking to Allen!"

There was an audible thump against the wood, and Komui made muttered complaints as heavy-booted feet walked towards the door.

Cross opened the door, a cigarette hanging out his mouth. "Listen, Little Lee," he spoke around the stick of tobacco. "We've got to motor. He can come back later for your little band thing whatever, but right now we're leaving—if you don't stop groveling like a little bitch, Lee, I swear—"

"You aren't supposed to go into her room!" the scientist snapped, grabbing the redhead's pants at the belt and pulling. "Especially with that cigarette and your _womanizing_ ways!"

"Shut up, Lee. I mean, really." Cross waved Allen over. "Let's go brat. I'm hungry and you need to learn how to cook again."

Allen huffed, waving at Lenalee as he walked out the room. "My name is _Allen_, uncle. _Allen_."

"And I _don't care_. Let's go."

* * *

May 27th, 1985.

"Hey, brat, wake up."

Allen moaned as the sudden light filtered into his dark room. "A few more minutes, _please_," he muttered, covering his head with his large comforter.

"Wake up." Cross stared at the steadily rising and falling of the lump in the covers. "I hate repeating myself, idiot. Wake _up_." He kicked the bed with a shined boot. Several books fell off the nightstand. "Christ, brat, clean up your damn room."

The white-haired boy opened his eyes blearily, peeking out from underneath his cover. "What do you _want_?" he grumbled in a grainy voice.

The red-haired man grabbed the edge of the comforter and roughly pulled it off the teenager's body, ignoring the yelp from his suddenly cold nephew. "We're going out," he said sternly.

"What?"

"We're going out. Jesus fuckin' Christ, I hate repeating myself." Cross reached up to tuck a wayward lock of red hair behind his ear. "Lee thinks I don't spend enough time with you."

"Well, _that_'s a blimey understatement if I've ever heard one." Allen sat up in his bed and stretched, grimacing. "I mean, I was abandoned for a few or seven months. And you only rang a few times every _three_ months."

Cross frowned. "I'm thinking I might've made a bad choice," he mused, rubbing his red stubble-brushed chin. "America is making you the bitchiest Brit I've ever known. And I knew your _dad_."

"My father was _not_ bitchy!"

"That's what you think. Get the hell up and make my breakfast so we can go!" Cross kicked the bed again.

Timcanpy trotted inside Allen's room, set on plopping on the boy's bed, and perked up at the sight of his tall owner. "Woof!" he barked joyously, jumping up on his hind legs and pawing the man.

"The hell? Tim?" Cross looked down at the dog. "Seriously, what the _fuck_ have you been feeding him? He's, like, a foot bigger."

"Dogs _grow_, Cross." Allen deadpanned. "Just like humans. It's part of evolution, which I learned back in London. Really, American schools are _severely_ lacking."

"Really, shut up. Your stupid voice gives me a headache. Come on Tim, let's go wait for my stupid nephew to feed you."

The man walked out his room, the yellow dog following him cheerfully.

Allen huffed and threw a pillow weakly after them.

* * *

"Idiot! Your boyfriend is on the phone!" Cross looked down at the headset. "The one-eyed one!"

Allen grumbled unintelligible curses underneath his breath, and he walked into the hallway with an irritated expression. "He isn't my boyfriend!" he snapped, passing his uncle the spatula. "And don't let the food burn!"

"If you keep telling me what to do," Cross muttered, walking away towards the kitchen. "I will kick your pale ass. I'm the adult here, brat."

"Great job with acting like one." Allen raised the phone to his ear. "Hello?" A smile lit up his face. "…Lavi! How nice to hear from you! …All right, and you?"

"How the hell do I flip these things?" the hazel-eyed man shouted.

The wrinkled red hand of the British teenager covered the mouthpiece of the headset. "You put the bloody spatula underneath!" he replied loudly. "It isn't that hard!" He returned to the phone. "I'm sorry about that. …What am I doing today? I'm going to chivvy about with my uncle. …What? Oh, I don't really know—Cross!" he called. "Where are we going?"

"To the shooting range—shit!" There was a loud sizzle from the kitchen, and white smoke was beginning to creep into the other parts of the house.

"Shooting range? What?" Allen demanded, and groaned. "Lavi, I'll, err, I'll call you back. …Hmm? …Oh, yes, I think I'll be open on Friday. But, I really must call you back. Bye!" He hung up the phone urgently, and practically ran into the kitchen. "…_Cross_."

"You know what? Fuck this." The red-haired man tossed the spatula in the sink, as well as the smoking skillet. "We're going to McDonald's."

* * *

"A shooting range?" Allen demanded, incredulous. "Why a _shooting_ range?"

"Because I need to practice and you need a hobby." Cross replied easily, stopping his black '81 Chevrolet Iroc-Z in front of a shady looking, suspicious building.

"A hobby? Well, in case you didn't know, I'm in a _band_."

"Yeah, and you're gay too. That's why we're going to shoot shit, because you need to man up."

"Shooting things makes me _less_ gay?" Allen paused. "And, for the Lord's sake, I am _not_ gay!"

Cross stepped out the car. "I hope you don't read the bible while thinking that, boy." He banged his fist on the hood of the vehicle. "Get out so we can go in."

"I'm _fifteen_, uncle! I don't have a gun license! I had a traumatizing experience with guns, and you _know_ this!" The fifteen-year-old complained as he got out of the car. He theorized that if he came up with enough excuses, the man would have to take him back home.

Cross smacked him atop the head, frowning. "Quit bitching," he snapped, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. "Let's go inside." The man shoved Allen down the sidewalk, and kept a tight grip on his shirt collar whenever the boy swayed off the trail.

Allen felt a cold sweat begin at his back. "I really, _truly_ do not want to do this. Please don't make me do this!" he begged, turning around and staring up at his uncle. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Hurt? People?" Cross barked a laugh, and with one final shove, pushed Allen into the building. "We're not shooting turkeys, idiot. We're going after targets. _People_, he thinks."

The interior of the shady building was rather straightforward.

Just guns, weapons, and really more guns.

The British teenager eyed an overly large rifle warily, staying close to his uncle.

"Zokalo." The red-haired man greeted. "Give me two."

A large, frightening-looking dark-skinned man looked down at him, narrowed black eyes slitting further. He crossed his heavy arms, thin black muscle shirt straining. "Marian," he hissed. "I thought you damn killed yourself."

"Then you're a fucking idiot. Give me two slots."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Winters Zokalo demanded, scowling.

Allen blinked. Didn't his uncle explain to him in detail that he hated repeating himself?

"Why does it matter?" The smoke trailed out his mouth as he spoke, and a thin red eyebrow was beginning to raise. "I just want to teach my nephew here how to defend himself, and you're jiving out like a _prick_, Zokalo."

"A fucking _prick_ Marian? You sayin' that to _me_?"

"My nephew here is too gay to be a prick," Cross replied with a shrug. "So you're the only one left. Just _give me two slots_, Christ. I really hate repeating myself."

Zokalo, with his obviously tense muscles, looked like he was ready to punch in Cross's bespectacled face. "Fine," he grudgingly muttered, reaching underneath his counter. "I won't deck you this time because your boy is next to you."

"Oh, no," Allen said with a smile, holding up gloved hands. "Go ahead. Please, don't mind me." A hand hit him upside the head once more.

"Shut up, brat."

The large man behind the counter pulled out two keys, and handed them to Cross. "Hope your kid shoots you in the heart," he said gruffly.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. Let's go moron."

* * *

"Choose which gun you want, idiot." Cross said, smoke from his halved cigarette framing his handsome face. He jabbed a thumb towards the rack full of weapons in the back.

"I don't want any." Allen replied, looking at the ceiling with a bored expression. Hopefully, the brash man would understand this and _leave him alone_.

"I'll shoot out your fucking kneecaps." A hand waved him off dismissively. "Now go choose a gun."

"Ugh. You are completely insufferable." The slender teenager stepped up to the rack slowly, his movement not belying his nervousness. On the rack, the only guns he could recognize were the Wesson & Smith models, the Colt brand, and the overly large hunting rifle that probably could take out an elephant.

Allen looked to the side. Or maybe even Cross.

He picked up the rifle with a small smile, but almost heaved with a yelp as the weight of the gun dropped abruptly onto his arms. "I'll be using this," he said aloud, straightening it in his arms.

The red-haired man looked at him, and then he glanced at the gun. "Put that shit back," he replied sternly. "I can't have you shooting out your head because you're a moron. The American government is paying me to love you."

Dear _Lord_ he hoped this rifle had ammunition in its barrel. "I'm going to use this," he said, smiling. "If I'm going to be forced to shoot something, then I'll be using a weapon of my choice."

Cross stared at him with his half-lidded hazel eyes, the dim lights above the shooting range giving his rectangular glasses a sharp glare.

The sound of gunshots made Allen jump, and he scrambled to keep the large gun in his arms.

The redhead barked a laugh, and he shook his head. "You know what, you have insurance. I'll be just fine."

* * *

"You know how to use a gun, right?"

"Um. No?" Allen replied, fitting the specialized earmuffs over his head.

"Just point," Cross held up his personal gun, a Colt .44 handgun that had been pointed at the English teenager more than just once. "And shoot." He slammed down the trigger, ringing off a loud bang.

The target lost a part of his genitalia area.

"And that's how you take care of your Hispanic stalker," the man finished, reloading the handgun.

Allen looked on in undefined horror. "Uh," he spoke up weakly, slipping on the goggles. "He's Portuguese."

"I don't really care about who you fuck, kid. They're all creeps in some way, big time." Cross pointed the gun at the target, and he fired off another shot. The mannequin suddenly had only one eye, and it was on the right. "Except for the one-eyed one. He knows what he's doing. But, Tiedoll's boy…the long-haired one with the bogus attitude problem," the redhead glared at his nephew. "What the fuck were you _thinking_?"

"I'm _not_ having sex with Kanda or Lavi!" the British teenager snapped and he stalked over to his own booth. "Or even _Tyki_!"

"Cool it, brat. Your accent is showing."

Allen held up his rifle, not entirely sure on how to use it, and touched the trigger lightly.

He sighed. "I can't do it," he said loudly, lowering the large earmuffs. "It feels like I'm shooting a human being."

"That's the kind of Betty talk that got you bullied in high school." Cross replied.

"I wasn't bullied in high school. I mean, I'm still _in_ high school and I haven't been bullied yet."

"You keep talking like a fag, you _will_ be."

The white-haired boy huffed and looked away. "I really don't want to learn how to use a gun."

"Brat, idiot, moron. Whatever your name is, shoot the target's head off."

"Allen. Allen Walker, uncle."

"Idiot," the man finally decided on. "You need a way to protect yourself for when I leave again."

"What? You're leaving?"

"Why do you _care_? Shoot the target's damn head off!"

"You've only been back for, I don't know, _three_ days?"

"If you don't shoot the target's head off, I will shoot _your_ head off."

Allen looked back at the target, mouth in a thin line. Holding up the rifle, he took aim and closed his eyes. "_Lord_," he prayed silently, and pulled the trigger quickly.

With a loud shot, a bullet ripped out of the barrel, and Allen fell backwards in surprise, hands still holding onto the rifle tightly.

Cross stared at the target mannequin, red eyebrows raised in amusement. "You _suck_," he said as though he just received proof. "You just blasted out this poor prick's belly."

"May I not do this anymore?" Allen asked weakly, sitting up shakily. "I, err, I'd like to go home now."

"I'm being a good guardian by teaching you self-defense, brat."

"Bollocks! I don't even have a _gun license_."

"Kid. It's 1985." He closed one eye and rang off several more shots, puncturing the target in the shoulders. "Why the hell would you need a gun license?"

"Because I'm _fifteen_?"

"That is your excuse for _every fucking thing_. Jesus Christ. I'll get you a gun license, but you've got to shut up."

"I don't _want_ a gun in the first place!" Allen exclaimed, running a gloved hand through his white hair. "Why are you so dodgy about this?"

"You were almost kidnapped, brat. Your Latino fuckbuddy wasn't trying to frolic you off to a park, kid."

"He's _Portuguese_. And I know how to fight, uncle. I'm not _so_ camp."

"And now you can know how to shoot off a gun. So, keep on going."

* * *

May 31st, 1985.

"Dude, it's 1985. Why would you need a gun license?" Lavi asked, a grin on his handsome face. "Your uncle is fucking _hardcore_ though, just to teach you how to shoot off a gun."

"Uh. No." Allen stuffed the remainder of his fries into his mouth. "Really, I'd rather the man just fall down a flight of steps. He has insurance. I'll be okay."

The redhead laughed, and he stretched his arms. "Awesome," he said. He checked his watch on his wrist. "Shit, shit, shit," he cursed, hitting his forehead. "Where the hell is Lenalee?"

"Hmm? What's going on?"

"We need Lenalee here, and pronto. Do you know what day's kicking up on us so damn fast?"

"American Independence Day?"

"A Brit _would_ make sure about that, wouldn't they?" Lavi teased, but shook his head. "But, negative, babe. Yuu's nineteenth birthday is popping up on the sixth of June, and we need to get him something from all of us."

"A brain?" Allen replied, an eyebrow cocked.

"From the _heart_."

"A better attitude?"

"Something that shows we care about him very much as a buddy."

"A _haircut_?"

"Christ, you're kind of a jerk, aren't ya?"

"No." Allen sipped at his Pepsi. "I'm just giving you my opinion."

"Noted." Lavi leaned up in his seat, hands planted on the table in the food court of the mall they hung out in. A smile lit up his face. "Lenalee! My lady!" he called, waving a hand. "Check us out over here!"

The Chinese girl caught sight of the two and grinned back, trotting up in her black heeled boots. "Red, Al," she greeted, the bangles on her wrists clinking with the movements of her body. "Thought of anything yet?"

"No, not really." The one-eyed drummer sighed, slumping back in his seat. "Thing is, Yuu'll reject any musical related object 'cause he loves that damn guitar—"

"Mugen," Lenalee interrupted, sitting beside Allen. "He almost floored you with a two by four the last time you called Mugen a 'damn guitar'."

"But it _is_ a damn guitar!" he whined.

Allen shrugged. "Let him keep his guitar," he spoke up, the straw slipping from between his lips. "Let's get him something special. Like, maybe a comb."

"Dude. His hair is fucking _perfect_." Lavi frowned. "I don't know what the fuck he does with it, but I'll be damned if every strand isn't in place every single day. Jesus _Christ_ I want his secret!"

Lenalee twirled a lock of her long dark hair in a finger. "He hates kindness," she murmured, tapping her other fingers on the table. "Can't stand real gifts. Won't accept clothes. Doesn't like gift cards. Wouldn't touch a wrapped box without a butcher's knife." She huffed. "There's nothing we can do!"

"No!" Lavi suddenly exclaimed, grinning. "We can take him out! To the _movies_."

"How? He won't go anywhere with us! And the movies are totally included in that."

"That's why we're gonna get someone to…_convince_ the bunk to hang out next week." The redhead laughed jovially, arms crossed.

The singer looked suspicious. "Who?" she retorted. " He's not gonna listen to _you_. And he'll only hide from _me_."

"That's why we're sending out our favorite Brit!" Lavi smiled at Allen, who wasn't exactly listening as much as he was reading a small book underneath the table.

The white-haired boy looked up at the word 'Brit'. "Hmm?" he hummed in question. "What's going on?"

"We're going to take Yuu out to the movies next week," Lavi explained with an eerie grin.

Allen snorted. "He's not going to come," he replied, looking back down at his book. "You should probably just give up right about now."

"And you're going to convince him."

"He's not going to come, and I'm not going to try."

"Wanna _bet_?"

Allen looked up, an eyebrow cocked.

Bet?

Allen could bet. He was a great gambler, if he didn't say so himself.

The book was snapped closed. "How much are we going for here?" the British teenager asked with a smile.

"Uh. Not a lot?" Lavi dug inside his pockets. "Like, twenty bucks?"

"Then twenty on me getting him to come."

"But. Dude. Brit. I was going to bet twenty on you getting him to come!"

"Then I'll get forty. Isn't this blinding?" The smile widened.

"Uh. Yeah."

Lavi felt slightly duped.

* * *

Seriously, FFN? Really? Is this your _final answer_? This new, uh, account shit with all the tabs that are all over the fucking place. D: I am not impressed.

This chapter was so that Cross could get a nice amount of characterization before we see if we want him to stay or not. :D He's an iffy man to plan out. And it was also so we could see how boy-crazy Lenalee is (with good reason) and how much of a human-loving pansy Allen is. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's actually kind of fun twisting AU events in this fic with canon facts (Allen's gun)(Cross's abuse)(Komui's OMFGURAMAN)

The song sung by _Noah's Ark_ was Pale Shelter, by _Tears for Fears_. They're fcking awesome, you must understand.

Next chapter, two (maybe one) new characters are introduced. And it's Andy's birthday, WOO. EXCELLENT.

And, I'd like to extend a truly felt apology to all of you readers and reviewers. Sometimes, it's hard for me to reply to a review. And for that, I am extremely sorry. D: If you are irked at my not-replies, then simply cyber-bonk me on the head, and I will keep on trying to reply to each review and comment, because they mean a lot to me. Even the oddly insulting ones. :D

And, in advance, HAPPY ELECTION DAY!


	20. Mad World

_TWENTY_

June 5th, 1985.

Lavi, as Allen had discovered, had an odd infatuation with sending the younger teenager on assignments that only rivaled the ones of the Kamikaze suicide pilots of World War II.

"So, here's the dealio," Lavi started, patting Allen's facial cheeks with a grin. "You're going to go to Yuu's pad."

Allen looked at him with a horrified expression. "Uh, _no_."

"Uh, _yeah_, you are. C'mon, man! You _owe_ me."

The younger teenager cocked an eyebrow. "For _what_? I've borrowed not even a dime from you, and if _anything_ you owe me. Especially after I manage to get Kanda to come."

The redhead rolled his eye. "Uh huh. And _how_ do you get him to come without going to his house?"

"I _do_ have his phone number, Lavi. We do talk. Sometimes." Allen frowned. "Well, maybe not _sometimes_. Occasionally." He tapped his chin with a gloved finger. "And, now that I think about it, the conversations never end well."

Lavi nodded sagely. "With a lot of yelling and screaming and pillow throwing and bullshit?" he finished, sighing. "It's the same damn story with _everyone_."

The British teen nodded, raising a hand to rub at his forehead. "Yes," he replied sadly, and then he blinked. "Well, at least without the pillow throwing. That's rather, err, _camp_."

"If I knew what the _fuck_ 'camp' meant in Brit-speak," the one-eyed teen replied cheerfully. "I'd tell you. But, dude, we got off course. Just like my limbs, hold up—" He stretched his arms, grimacing. "Shit, felt the strain there, that's fer sure. Okay, like I was saying: You're going to Yuu's place." He narrowed his eye at the boy's movement to speak. "Close your _mouth_."

Allen closed his mouth, blinking his gray eyes.

"Before you get all righteous and shit about your faggy phone calls with the man," Lavi said sternly. "You already said that after each call, a lot of ass pain happens."

"Wait, _what_—"

"Quit buggin', Brit. So, what's one way to pencil out your fag problem? By going to his house!"

The white-haired stared at him, an eyebrow cocked as he tried to make sense of the older teenager's logic. "I'm sorry, but _no_." He gave up almost immediately. "Lavi, look, I'm sure you don't realize this, but Kanda really _hates_ my guts."

Lavi, whose hands had lowered to Allen's collar area, grinned. "Yeah, and I do too, don't I?" he retorted, crossing his denim-clad legs. "Brit, baby, he hates you just as much as _I_ do."

"Hmm?" Allen leveled a look of suspicion at the redhead. "That makes me wonder how much you're secretly narked at me."

"Che'yeah _right_. You wish I was secretly pissed at you." He smiled. "Sorry baby, but, its never gonna happen. Because, you see, I've got this _feeling_ for you, and it's a kickass feeling to have. You should try it out some time. On me, of course."

"What? I'm sorry, but _what_?"

"So, you're going to go to his place," Lavi explained, going completely off-subject. "And you're gonna go inside. When you get there, you're gonna find a bunch of shit, but ignore that. Go _straight_ for his keys!"

"Blimey the conversation has taken an extremely random turn," Allen muttered, rubbing his temples. "Why his keys?"

"After Mugen, that van is the next best thing in his life. I'm about third."

"No, you're about _delusional_." The British teen crossed his arms, a skeptical expression on his face. "What makes you so bloody _sure_ he's going to let me in?"

"Hey. Trust me."

That was decidedly hard to do, especially considering the odd grin on the older teenager's face. In all honesty, Allen would rather trust a drunken _Cross_ at the moment. And there was a valid reason he didn't do that.

"Fine." He huffed. "And how, pray tell, will I even _get_ there?"

"Dude, you have a parent now—"

"That man is _not_ my father!" Allen snapped, banging a fist on the coffee table.

Lavi stared at him, a small frown on his face. "Err…" he tried to speak, but no words could come to him.

The white-haired teenager coughed into a gloved fist. "I apologize. It's just a very…_sensitive_ subject with him."

"Right. I can totally tell." The redhead coughed lowly in his throat, scratching his temple underneath his bandana. "So, uh, yeah. Try to get him to take you to Yuu's place."

"He already cracks enough funnies about Kanda and I and our nonexistent sexual relationship." Allen replied tersely. "I _really_ do not want to give him anymore ammunition."

"Okay?" Lavi leaned back, smirking. "If _that's_ the case, then leave the old man to _me_. He'll cart you off to Yuu's place first thing in the morning, I can guarantee that."

Allen grinned. "It's ridiculously adorable the way you sound so bloody _sure_ of yourself."

The older teenager leaned in close to the British boy's face, a conspiring grin on his handsome face. "Want to know a secret?" he whispered, looking around in a suspicious manner. "I became valedictorian because I _believed_ in myself. So, what kind of loser would I be if I didn't even have confidence in _this_ kind of bod'?" He tried to wink, but failed rather pitifully.

Allen laughed aloud, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. "All right," he finally said. "_If_ you can get me to Kanda's apartment or wherever the bloody hell he lives, then I will get him to come. I can guarantee you _that_."

"Come on. I'm _Lavi_." Lavi patted his chest, smirking. "If I can't do it, who can?"

"I can name at least twenty-nine people on this street alone," Allen replied with a grin, resting his chin on the back of a gloved hand. "Not counting Timcanpy."

The dog perked up at the sound of his name, his folded ears standing stiffly.

"You _wish_. Oh!" The redhead snapped his fingers. "Don't forget to get Yuu a gift."

"Why? So he can throw it into his fireplace and be kept warm during the winter?"

"No. So you can show how much you care!" Lavi grinned cheekily, folding his arms behind his head.

Allen hummed in thought. "Then, should I give him a 'Get out of Jail Free' card?"

* * *

Later that night, the phone rang.

And Allen, in a moment of dreary sleepiness, could not answer it nearly as fast as his uncle.

"What?" Cross's deep voice was heard through the slightly opened door. "Who the fuck is this?" He paused. "Who—_Lavi_?"

A slow drop of fear slid down Allen's stomach, and he glanced at his telephone in horror.

"I don't _think_ I'm doing anything tomorrow—"

He reached over for the phone on the nightstand with his wrinkled red hand, a pinched look of concentration on his face. Maybe he could listen in and try to interrupt the plan?

"You want me to take the brat _where_?" Cross was saying lowly, disgust clear in his tone. "To that little asshole's place? Why? So they can have a birthday fuck party? Che'yeah _right_."

One day, Allen was going to kill Cross.

It might've been a horrible thing to even _consider_, but he was definitely considering it.

That man was not going to survive.

Grabbing the phone, he pressed the headset to his ear, straining to hear what was going on.

"_Yeah right_," Lavi's playful baritone was speaking. "_There ain't gonna be any birthday fuck parties. I mean, we're talkin' about _Yuu_ here, sir. Tiedoll's boy, all that jazz. The guy has a sex drive like a T-model Ford._"

"Do they still _make_ those?" Cross replied.

"_Exactly._" Lavi sounded more than amused. "_Sir, just do me this one favor. I'll, uh, give you stuff._"

"Stuff, huh." The red-haired man hummed. "Hold on. Brat!" he snapped. "Get off of the fucking phone! Where the _fuck_ are your manners, boy?"

"You weren't supposed to answer the bloody phone!" Allen slammed the headset back onto the hold.

He picked it up again. "Sorry sir," he apologized. "I didn't mean to slam the phone."

Cross scoffed. "Go to _sleep_, brat. You keep this up—I'm sending you to fucking summer camp."

"_No way! We need him in the band!_"

"I'm sure you do, Red."

"Pot and kettle?" Allen said suddenly, not understanding why anyone with Cross's vibrant shade of red hair would call another redhead just that.

"Shut the hell up and go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

June 6th, 1985.

"Wake up, boy," the tall red-haired man commanded, arms crossed. "I'm sure Louis told you the deal already, right?"

"Ugh." Allen groaned, trying to cover his eyes from the influx of light in his room. "His name is _Lavi_, uncle."

"I don't care. I'm supposed to take you to your girlfriend's house now, so get up, get dressed, and get the hell in the car."

"…Girlfriend?" the British boy sat up, a confused expression on his face. "I thought you were stuck on me and my nonexistent homosexuality."

"No. You're still very gay." Cross walked out the room, smoking trailing behind him languidly.

"How am I still a bloody _fag_ when I'm _fifteen_ and, according to you, have a girlfriend!" Allen called after him, slipping out from underneath his comforter.

Then, the underlying message hit him.

"Oh," he breathed. "Kanda." He glared at the doorway, where the sound of the man walking away echoed from. "Get bent!" he snapped.

"Whatever." Was Cross's ever elusive reply. "Get dressed, boy, and get in the fucking car."

Allen hoped that Kanda would have the _best nineteenth birthday_ in bloody _history_ for all of his suffering.

* * *

The apartment complex that Kanda apparently lived in (as evidenced by the sight of the notorious Chevrolet van in the parking lot) was literally down the street and not in some sort of rough-and-tumble neighborhood like the younger teenager was expecting.

"Blow me," Allen breathed in amazement. "He doesn't live in the _ghetto_."

Cross, who looked at him purely for his accent's slaughter of the word 'ghetto', unlocked the door. "If you don't drop that freaking dialect," he muttered. "I will tear out your throat. Why the hell do you think I brought you to America? So you could sip tea and fuck guys? You could've done the same damn thing in England, so pick up a cup of goddamn coffee and ask out your cute Chinese friend."

Lenalee?

Allen couldn't help it, but a light "ew" slipped from behind his lips. Thinking of Lenalee as more than a very good friend was not very good to his health (he admitted that Komui was a bit of a direct cause of this). And coffee was just _disgusting_.

"Right." He stepped out of the man's sleek car, and closed the door. And, just for the sake of being nice, he flashed a smile at his uncle. "Have a nice day!"

"Don't take too much up the ass, brat," Cross replied blandly, starting his car. "I heard it's pretty hard to walk afterwards." The redhead drove off, his wheels screeching loudly.

Allen was going to make sure the man didn't make it to the year 1986.

He breathed deeply to quell his sudden anger. "Ah, the apartment number," he muttered, patting down the pockets of his tight dark jeans. Slipping his hand into his back pocket, he pulled out the folded sheet of notebook paper with his instructions, written in Lavi's very own curving handwriting.

He unfolded it, walking towards the apartment complex, and read. "…Apartment number three," he mumbled, and looked up. "Well, that was easy."

The door to apartment number three, although normal, made Allen hesitate in even standing in front of it.

He knocked, and when no one answered, he felt a little nostalgic.

"There's no garage," he said, and knocked harder. "So I _know_ you're here, jerk. Open up!" he said loudly through the door.

A thump was heard on the other side. "Who the _fuck_ is this?" Kanda growled, voice muffled by the door.

"Allen!"

"Allen? Who the fuck is Allen?" The door swung open, and Kanda, donned in black track pants and a sleeveless gray shirt, stared at the British teenager blearily. "Oh. Fuck. Brat, hey."

Allen leveled his with a look of incredibility. "You seriously do not know my name?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"No. Can't say I've ever really cared." The Japanese teenager leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "What do you want?"

"Hmm? Oh, happy birthday!" Allen's smile widened, and he held his hands behind his back as he gave Kanda a deadpan look. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"No." But Kanda moved back inside, leaving the door open. Allen followed him in, closing the door carefully behind him, and took in a deep breath.

"I can't smell the cannabis…" he said, amazed.

"Of course you can't. What kind of stupid zeek do you take me for?" Kanda replied.

Allen decided not to answer that.

"So, why are you here?" the guitarist asked, running his fingers through his inky dark hair. "If you don't have a chill reason, then get the hell out."

"Calm down, prick." The white-haired teenager rolled his eyes, and rubbed his eyebrows with his fingers. "Do you even _know_ what today is?"

"Yes." Kanda pointed at the door. "You getting the fuck out because you don't have a good reason to be in my fucking house day."

"One, it's an apartment, Kanda. Not a house. Two," Allen huffed. "Today, like I said earlier, is apparently your birthday."

"Okay? Congratulations."

"No. No, _you_ are to be congratulated. Lavi wants me to—"

"Oh, get the fuck out. Seriously." The older teenager took a step closer to the younger teen, a scowl on his face. "Anything that skeezer asked you to do is up to no good."

"While this may be true—" Allen glanced around the roomy apartment, noting the lack of homely items and a really distracting hole in the window. "I'm sorry, but is that a _hole_ in your window?"

"Yeah, so what?"

The British boy waved a hand towards it, eyebrows furrowed. "Haven't you thought of, well, getting it _fixed_?"

"No. Why the fuck do you even _care_? So what the hell did Cyclops send you here for?"

Allen took a step farther into the apartment, searching for the Japanese teenager's car keys. "I'm here to take you to the movies," he explained with his usual smile. "After all, it's your birthday. Spend it having fun."

"With _you_ losers? Che'yeah _right_." Kanda scoffed, narrowing his eyes. "You're a dumbass if you thought I was going to agree or some shit like that."

"Oh, I knew you wouldn't agree." There was a shine of silver on the coffee table next to the couch, as well as a myriad of colors that could only be the awful keychain collection. "So, I'm here to, ah, _persuade_ you."

"Persuade me?" Kanda's dark eyes roamed down Allen's body in an obvious manner, and he smirked. "Are you psychin' me or what?"

"Or what, indeed. You have a dirtier mind than I thought," the fifteen-year-old replied blandly, walking idly towards the coffee table. He faked a yawn. "Good Lord, I'm feeling rather tired. May I take a seat?"

"Why the fuck would you ask to sit on a couch?" Kanda snapped, and he shook his head. "You're weird, brat. I'm talking mega-weird here. You _asked_ to _sit_ on a fucking _couch_?"

"Yes." Now, how exactly would he get the keys when the nineteen-year-old obviously wasn't taking his eyes off of him anytime soon? "How about it? Is it a bomb?"

"No." Kanda grabbed the edge of his shirt and pulled it up, gaining a horrified look from Allen.

The British boy covered his mouth for a moment. "I'm truly sorry," he spoke up. "But, what the bloody _hell_ are you doing?"

"Getting dressed." The older teenager threw the shirt somewhere to the side, where the bedroom must've been.

"Ah." Gray eyes opened slowly. On the guitarist's white-yet-muscular chest was a tribal-looking tattoo that stretched out towards his left arm. "…What a charming tattoo."

"I could say the same for your fucking _face_." Allen rolled his eyes at the retort. Really, the guy could find a little more _originality_ in his insults.

The moment the two thumbs hooked into the loose pants in a motion to pull them down, Allen let out a yelp of offense.

"Don't _do_ that!" he snapped. "It's entirely unattractive!"

"Yeah?" Kanda moved his hands up. "I don't fuckin' _care_."

Allen smiled anyway, crossing his arms. "I can see."

"I bet you can. Since you're a prude geek, I'm going into my room." He jabbed a thumb in the direction where he tossed the shirt. "When I come out, I better not find _shit_ missing, or I will kick your dog-loving tea-sipping synth-playing _ass_."

"Alright. Cheers!" The British boy waved him off with a little too much exuberance. He smiled at the narrowed eyes of the Japanese teenager and crossed his legs.

The moment Kanda was out of sight, Allen dropped the smile and shot out his hand to grab the keys from the tabletop. He winced at the loud jingling sound and tried to stick the keys in his pockets. He failed pathetically.

"—oh bloody hell," he cursed, giving up. The pale boy took one look at the ridiculous hole in the glass window behind him and hoped to God there was some sort of shrubbery underneath.

He threw the keys through the hole.

Kanda came out of his room at the point, running his hands down his abdomen to straighten his short-sleeved blue T-shirt. "What the fuck are you looking so freaked for?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked.

Allen almost jumped, and he turned around with an irked smile. "I was observing your window hole," he explained, flipping his bangs out of the way of his eyes.

It was definitely time for a haircut.

"What the _fuck—_you know what?" Kanda waved him off dismissively. "I don't even care. Now, unless you're gonna persuade me and succeed to come to the stupid movies, get the hell out of my house."

"The way you're making it sound, Kanda," Allen replied, narrowing his eyes slightly with a smile. "Is like there'll be sexual favors involved."

"Huh." The older teen hooked his thumbs in his stonewashed denim jean pockets. "Really?"

"No." Oh dear _God_ he hoped Cross wasn't on to something. "But, I will challenge you."

"With what? A fight?" A light of interest came into Kanda's dark eyes. "Fuckin' A."

"What? No!" Allen laughed, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. "Not at all. More mind based, if you can understand _that_ much—"

"What the fuck did you steal?" Kanda snapped, glaring.

"That's the fun part!" Allen retorted, grinning. "You find out what is missing and I'll simply leave." He was rather sad to admit that he had a bit of a bad habit of lying. But, it had its perks.

Kanda stepped closer, cracking his knuckles. "I told you, brat," he snarled, upper lip curled. "If I found _anything_ missing, I'd deck your punk ass."

"But, what's missing?"

"…_Fuck_." The guitarist looked around, eyes narrowed. "It's not like I had so much shit in the first place," he grumbled. "And I was only in my room for, like, two minutes. So it had to've been something you jacked in less than two minutes."

"You are a genius."

"Shut the fuck up." Kanda began to pace the area, running his fingers through his hair. "It isn't Mugen, since that's in my room. Not my pots and pans, I would've heard that. Not my couch, it's too big…"

Allen leaned forward, an amused smile on his face. "It's like taking a butchers into your soul," he remarked, a hand resting on his chin. "Or, at least your intelligence."

"…not my TV, it's still there," Kanda was still thinking, a frown on his face. "Not my _wall_, that's just stupid. What the fuck did he take?"

"Here's a hint: your keys." The British boy paused and waited for the older teenager to get violent.

He did not have to wait long, as Kanda grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up to his level, causing Allen to have to stand on the tips of his converse shoes.

"Where the _fuck_ are my keys, punk?" he growled, almost shaking Allen in his grip.

The younger teenager grabbed Kanda's biceps, trying to shove him off. "You have to guess!" he complained. "There's no bloody fun in me just telling you twice!"

"Well, you don't _have_ to tell me twice. You just have to tell me where the fuck my fucking keys are before I kick your fucking ass."

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"She's dead, where the fuck are my keys?"

"I threw them out the window."

Kanda huffed and let go of his collar, and then he shoved him out the way. "Go get them," he snapped, pointing at the broken window. "I'm serious."

"I'm sure." Allen warily walked around Kanda to the couch, where he leaned over to open the window. "Here I go." He stuck his head out the window, sighing.

"Yeah." A shoe roughly pushed him through the window, and he fell down with a small scream. "Why the fuck are you screaming? It's the first floor!"

The white-haired boy, with a dazed expression, looked up at him from the small brush of shrubbery he fell on. "Does that change the fact that you _kicked me out the bloody window_?" he retorted, trying to sit up. "Ugh, there is something digging into my arse terribly."

"Maybe it's the fucking _bush_?" Kanda replied, leaning on the windowsill.

"No." Allen, with much effort, stood up shakily. And, with a wide smile, he pulled out from the shrubbery a ring of keys and keychains victoriously. "Well, would you look at that?"

"Now give them here." Kanda held out a hand.

"Uh, _no_." The British boy waved the keys jauntily and sprinted down the small path towards the parking lot. His laughter rang out, making Kanda growl low in his throat and jump out the window himself.

"Oh _hell no_," he snarled, chasing the boy. "Give me back my fucking keys!"

Allen made a quick turn into the parking lot, finding his protection in the plethora of cars around him. He thanked God once more that, if nothing else, his body was flexible.

"Oh _shit_," the nineteen-year-old cursed, and he slowed down as he almost banged his knee into the bender of a Sedan. "Fuck you, brat!"

"Ah," Allen breathed, feeling his legs get tired. He needed to run more. "Give me a moment, would you?"

"No." Kanda, with a burst of speed, caught up with the younger teenager. He wrapped his forearm around Allen's neck, smirking victoriously. "Now give me my keys, hoser."

"Every bloody time," Allen grumbled, handing him back his key ring. "It's always about your stupid keys."

"Then quit taking them." Kanda tried to pocket them as well, but gave up after five seconds of effort. "Now go away."

"I made a bet with Lavi on getting you to come," the white-haired boy said stubbornly. "I am going to get that forty, no matter what."

"Forty?" The Japanese teenager cocked an eyebrow. "Like, forty dollars?"

"No, forty quid." Allen paused. "Wait, that's the same thing. Ugh, extended contact with you can do some serious harm on one's intelligence."

"Give me half." Kanda said, clearly ignoring what his bandmate said. "Give me twenty, and I'll go."

"_Twenty_?" Allen looked affronted. "That's a right burglary!"

"Oh the fuck well." The nineteen-year-old looked proud of himself. "So, are you in or are you out?"

"Ergh…" The prospect of losing money was disheartening, but the smirk on Kanda's face was really edging at his nerves. "Sure. I mean, yes, I'm in."

"All right." Kanda's eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. "Right, one more thing."

"_More_?"

"Hey. It's my fucking birthday." He huffed. "I'll go if you give me the twenty and if you go to this bogus lunch shit with me. My ex-foster dad is stalking the hell out of me to go, and I'm _not_ going alone."

Allen blinked. "Oh." He smiled. "That is so _precious_. You're afraid of your family."

"Shut the fuck up. No I'm not." Kanda crossed his arms. "So, will you go? Or will I go back inside to spend my nineteenth birthday hotboxing my room?"

"I could care less, but yes, I'll go."

"And you'll give me twenty."

"Ugh. Yea, sure. Wanker."

"So." Kanda began walking towards his van. "Which movie theater are we going to?"

* * *

"Holy _shit_," Lavi muttered, green eye wide. "You actually got him to come."

"Yes." Allen smiled and held out a hand. "The money please."

"Aw man…" the redhead dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Take your stupid money." He pulled out two twenties and gave them to the younger teen.

"Oh. I will." The white-haired teenager took the money and prepared to put it into his pockets, and he heard the loud sound of a throat being cleared behind him. "Damn you."

"Yeah, whatever." Kanda snatched a twenty from his hands. "Yoink."

Lenalee trotted up from the inside of the theater, and blinked at Kanda. "Uh, what's up?" she greeted warily. "Why the hell are you here?"

"This punk," Kanda flicked Allen on the forehead. "Made me."

"Oh. Hey, Al, are you, like, a descendent of Jesus or something?"

"We're all God's children," Allen replied, shoving the Japanese teen playfully. "So, yes."

"I thought so, because getting Kanda to come is nothing short of a _miracle_."

"Really?"

"Really." Lenalee checked her wristwatch underneath her plethora of bangles. "Hey, the _Return of the Living Dead_ comes on in thirty minutes. You guys want to see it or not?"

"Aww…" Lavi whined. "I wanted to see _Return of Oz_."

"Get bent," Kanda retorted. "That's so gay."

"You're so gay!"

"Your _face_ is so gay."

Allen shook his head. "Is this _Return of the Living Dead_ movie scary? At all?"

"Uh. I wouldn't know." The Chinese girl shrugged. "It was the only movie that seemed kinda cool. After all, _How to Enlarge Your Penis_ was a big Nuh-Uh on _my_ list. I'm sure Kanda wouldn't have wanted to watch _that_ for his birthday."

Kanda looked horrified. "There's an actual _movie_ like that?"

"Yeah, it's playing. Did you actually want to see it?" Lenalee's expression was disturbed.

"No," he shook his head. "_No_. Let's go see _Return of the Lying Deer_ or whatever it's called."

"It sounds kinda scary." Lavi said, shrugging.

Allen huffed. "I hope it is. Those are the only flicks I can well stand."

* * *

The _Return of the Living Dead_ was, quite simply, the most anti-scary horror movie Allen had ever been cursed to see.

Honestly, his _popcorn_ was scarier.

Or at least when Kanda was throwing it at him.

"Hey, stay still," the older teen snapped quietly. "I'm trying to get three points." He tossed a couple of kernels at the pale boy, who narrowed his eyes as he brushed the popcorn off his shirt.

"Quit that."

"No." He threw more at him. A few hit Lenalee, who sat between Allen and Kanda, and she elbowed the nineteen-year-old in his stomach roughly.

"Stop being a jerk," she hissed. "The zombies are jamming."

"Hmph." Kanda sniffed in offense, leaning back in his seat. Lavi reached into his popcorn bucket and stuffed a good handful of the snack into his mouth

The dancing zombies, while entertaining in a comedic way, were really beginning to make Allen wonder why they didn't go see _How to Enlarge Your Penis_. It was probably scarier than this was proving to be.

He sighed and stood up. "I'm going to the bathroom," he announced in a whispering voice.

"Don't come back." Kanda replied, and grunted softly at another elbow jabbing into his abdomen.

"Piss off."

Allen snuck lowly down the aisle, trying to not interrupt the entertainment of the over moviegoers, if this failure of a horror could be called such.

"—god this movie sucks," a lightly accented baritone grumbled, and Allen looked in that direction in an effort to see who was speaking.

He cocked an eyebrow.

It was the graduation creep.

Despite wearing a hat and sunglasses in the dark movie theater, his golden blond ponytail stuck out like a sore thumb and the fact that he was more focused on the dark-haired girl three rows down than the movie was more than enough to give Allen a reason for a sudden detour.

He slowly snuck up the row behind the man and sat behind him. "'Ello," he greeted with a grin, reveling in the none-too-subtle jump from the blond man. "How _are_ you doing?"

"Uh, fine," he answered hastily. A slightly tanned hand pushed the sunglasses higher on his face (which was admittedly handsome, Allen could say). "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing." Allen smiled harder. "Just wondering why you're so bloody _stuck_ on following my good friend Lenalee."

"Eh—" the man froze, blue eyes peeking from his slipping shades. "I can explain!"

"Really?" the British boy crossed his legs. "I'm listening."

"M-my name is Bak Chan," the man explained hurriedly, fixing his sunglasses. "I'm a, uh, I'm a record producer."

"And I'm the Queen of England," Allen replied.

Never was he so happy that he wasn't near any of his friends at that moment.

"Hey," Bak said, frowning. "I'm serious." He wrung his hands together.

"I can see. And what does this have to do with your stalking Lenalee, Mr. Corey Hart?"

"A-ah," a blush crept up his cheeks, and he huffed. "Wait. I'm twenty-nine, I don't have to answer to _you_, brat."

"Like I haven't heard that one before." Allen rolled his gray eyes.

"Heard which one?" Lenalee stood at the end of the row, hands on her hips. "You two were talking kinda loudly, well, at least you, Mr. Sunglasses-At-Night. I heard my name, though, so 'fess up."

"Hah!" Bak yelped, and he covered his face. "_Shit_!" Scurrying out of his seat, the blond man ran down the other side of the row, and almost tripped up the aisle.

Allen stood up worriedly. "I'll be back in a moment," he told Lenalee with a frown. "I must see if the bloke is okay."

"Hey, it's all good. Remember to come back, though!"

"Of course!" He trotted after the man out of the movie showing, and followed the distinct sound of foreign cursing into the men's restroom.

He walked in, an eyebrow cocked. "I see you found the right restroom this time," he stated blandly.

"Hey, kid, shut up." Bak leaned over a sink, splashing water on his face. Pale red bumps stood out prominently on his golden skin, and a distressed look was on his face.

Allen blinked. "…Are you okay?" he asked slowly.

"I get hives when I'm nervous," the man explained, sighing. "It's mega embarrassing."

"I'm sure."

Bak shook his head, still washing his face. "You're part of the band, the _Black Order_, aren't you?" he asked. "The synth player, I've seen you quite a few times."

"Really? So, you're stalking Lenalee for her autograph?" Allen smiled. "Would you like me to get her to sign your Converse Chuck Taylors?"

"No!" the blond man exclaimed. "…But, she can autograph this for me." He reached into his jean pockets and pulled out a card. "Here you go!" The man flashed a small smile at him.

"Hmm?" the British boy took the card, reading over the small font. His eyes widened. "No way…" he gasped.

"Yes way." Bak tore a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped his face dry. The hives had regressed back into his skin, leaving miniscule red dots about his face. "Call me, would you? The _Black Order_ has a lot of potential." He ran out of the bathroom at that, still covering half of his face.

Allen watched him go with a face frozen in shock.

* * *

"Bak Chan?" Lavi took the card from his gloved fingers. "CEO of _Branch Records_? Aren't they those people who go after new meat and shit like that? They helped that rapper chick, uh, what's'er'name? Lo?"

"Yeah. I guess." Lenalee tapped her foot. "This is bulk cool! I didn't know you knew people, Al!"

"Neither did I." Allen replied blandly.

Kanda yawned, covering his mouth loosely. "Jesus fuckin' Christ that movie was so fucking lame," he complained. "I'm never going to the movies with you burnouts again."

"Oh, believe me when I say that I could honestly to God care _less_," the British boy retorted, still rather sore at the lack of twenty dollars in his pocket.

"Ah well." Lavi grinned. "Let's go chill, I'm reeling from all of this excitement. And that movie made me laugh my ass off."

"Hell no, I'm going home." Kanda stalked forward.

Lenalee pulled a sad frown. "But. I had _presents_ for you."

Allen smiled at the nineteen-year-old. "Did you hear that, Kanda?" he cooed. "Another warm winter."

"Shut the hell up." Kanda huffed. "Are you trying to get me to go to _your_ place, Lenalee?"

"Yes. But I really have presents."

"Huh." He sighed. "_Fine_."

Lavi let out a whoop. And he looked forward. "Oh _shit_," he breathed. "Yuu, dude. Someone's trying to jack your van."

"What? No fuckin' way."

Allen squinted his eyes to see whatever Lavi was seeing, and caught sight of a tall figure very, _very_ close to Kanda's Chevy.

"Well, blow me," he said in amusement. "Someone really _is_ trying to filch your van."

"Oh _hell_ no." Kanda took off in a squint towards his van, fists clenched tightly.

Lenalee winced. "There's totally gonna be a dead body."

"I bet it's Tiedoll," the redhead said suddenly.

Allen shook his head. "I bet it's one of his foster brothers," he replied.

"Yeah? Ten dollars it's Tiedoll."

"Okay." The white-haired teen shrugged. "It's not like you're so _right_ or anything. Besides, I never lose a bet."

They shared a challenging stare, and Allen took off after Kanda. Lavi almost stumbled over his feet as he scurried after him, feet pounding the concrete.

Lenalee groaned. "_Boys_," she whined. And she walked after them, not feeling up to running in high heels.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Kanda was snarling as Allen came to a halt in front of him and the van. A large Asian man was in his grip, and the Japanese teenager had his fist pulled back in preparation.

The perpetrator looked ridiculously familiar though.

Allen gasped. "You're that prick that manhandled me at _BlackOut_!" he exclaimed, pointing at the dark-haired man accusingly.

"Huh?" the man looked at him, and then looked back at Kanda. "Oh, yeah, you're that twelve-year-old," he said, trying to pry Kanda's hold off of him. He frowned at the lack of relief. "Kanda, it's me! Chaoji!"

Lavi groaned. "Fuck this!" he complained, throwing his hands in the air. "I've lost two bets in one day!"

"I told you I never lose." Allen held out his hand. "That will be ten dollars, if you may."

"Yeah, okay." The redhead muttered various curses underneath his breath as he pulled out his wallet again that day. "Here!" He practically threw the money at his younger friend.

"Thanks!" Allen thanked with a smile.

"Why the _hell_ were you trying to jack my van?" Kanda growled, shaking Chaoji in his hold.

"I was going to take it to the shop!" the man explained. "It's been making these really creaky sounds and I was going to get it fixed."

The Japanese teenager narrowed his eyes. "If _anyone's_ gonna fix my fucking van, it's gonna be _me_. Keep the hell out of my life!"

"But, I miss you!"

"And I _don't_. Leave me the hell alone." Kanda shoved the man away from him roughly, a scowl on his face.

Chaoji looked utterly disheartened. "Well," he started, scratching his chin. "Happy birthday?"

Kanda punched him in the face.

* * *

Is it just me, or do the first few paragraphs of this chapter feel _very_, very dirty? D:

For those who don't get a particular reference: Corey Hart is the guy famous for the 1983 hit "Sunglasses At Night", with the simple chorus of "I wear my suuuunglaaaasses at niiight so I CAN so I CAN watch you sleep and blah blah blah blah blah".

LAWL I've been playing God of War. I just got the game from a friend, and it consumed my life. :D But, I made special time for this chapter and its excessive homo. Now, BACK TO BUSINESS GUYS, SORRY. D:

Saphira Eliante, THERE YOU GO. :D:D:D:D:D:D

Emiggax is very sad because she lost her CoCo Kitty on Gaia. MM HMM YEAH-HEAH. Let's all give her our condolences. UH HUH AWWWRIGHT.

Bak Chan was a favorite, I'm sorry. As well as Kanda, but that's just normal. :)

I've come to the conclusion that I HATE the new FFN format. :D CONGRATULATIONS IF YOU LIKE IT! HA HA!

LOL Next chapter, new character. And…the return of the Mikk. :DDD And moar fanart from Emi is on my profile, concerning Timcanpy the adolescent dog. :D He's fabulous!

Oh. And _Return of the Living Dead_ is a Sci-Fi Comedy-Horror movie that came out May 15, 1985 (lawl my birthday). IMDB did not tell me when _How to Enlarge Your Penis_ came out, but it said 1985, so I _improvised_. :3


	21. Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

_TWENTY-ONE_

June 11th, 1985.

Lenalee sometimes needs to ask herself _why_ she has not pushed Komui down the stairs.

He totally has it coming, that's for sure.

"No means _no_," her older brother stated sternly, looking everywhere but at her all-too-hopeful face. "I'm telling you, it's a total fraud!"

"No way!" Lenalee insisted, gesturing excitedly. "And I'm telling _you_, this is the bomb! The real deal! He's totally the best!"

"And how did you meet?"

"At the movies. I mean, _duh_, I've told you this nine times already." So, she was exaggerating. Who cares, as long as her point got across?

Komui closed the cabinets, and worked on looking in the pantry. "That sounds suspicious," he replied distractedly. "I'm talking _really_ suspicious."

"Yeah, well, Kanda says the same about you when you freak out over me."

"Lenalee, sweetheart," the Chinese man looked over at his younger sister with a smile. "Since _when_ has Kanda's opinion ever mattered to me? I mean, _really_, I learned a long time ago to not care. Why should I when nothing nice _ever_ comes out of that dirty, dirty mouth of his?" He scoffed and returned to looking for his last bag of flour. "Where is that sack, Lenalee?"

"I don't know." She observed her fingernails idly. "…I bet _Allen's_ hot guardian lets him do whatever _he_ wants."

"Allen has no choice, he's frequently abandoned." Komui furrowed his eyebrows. "And, did you just call Marian _hot_?"

"Uh, yeah. He is, isn't he?"

"No. And you shouldn't think he is either, because he is a disgusting man with womanizing tendencies and this terrible habit of _smoking_ and _drinking_ and if you go near him, I'll be forced to take some _serious_ measures. No offense, of course."

Lenalee narrowed her eyes. "Did you ever think that maybe seventeen was a good age to start letting teenage girls do what they want?" The truth is that she was trying to quote one of her favorite television shows, _Square Pegs_, and it wasn't working as well as it did in the show.

"Actually, I always thought seventy was a more on-track age for that, but whatever." The dark-haired man let out a pleased sigh as he found his bag of flour in the bottom of the cabinet. "Now, I can start dinner."

"Seventy? You've _got_ to be a joke."

Komui grinned. "Do I tell jokes?"

"Knock-knock ones," Lenalee retorted with a similar smile. "And, really, they're all lame. All of them."

"Really? I though you liked my knock-knock jokes." The man looked amused.

"Whoa. Have we ever _met_?"

"Sure we have. Do you want chicken or fish? Because we only have fish."

"Then why ask me?" She huffed, crossing her arms across her chest. The multicolored bangles on her wrists made plastic clanks at the motion. "So, can we still talk about—"

A standard shrilling ring sounded within the living room, and Komui jabbed a thumb in that direction. "The phone's ringing," he said, stating the obvious. "Go answer it. Please."

"Ugh, you're such a zeek." The Chinese teenager stood up and dusted off her black tights. "Fine, I'm off." She walked into the living room, mimicking Komui passionately, and answered the corded tan phone.

"Hi?" she greeted. A smile lit up her face. "Allen! My favorite fag! …Oh, right, you're not gay." She rolled her eyes at that. "What's up, Brit?" Her fingers habitually began to twirl within the curls of the phone's cord. "You're not coming to band practice tomorrow? Why? …You're going out with _Kanda_?" Whoa, she did _not_ see that coming. "Not going out? Oh, you're going to the park with him. To a family picnic." That was even weirder than her original thought. "Uhm. _Wow_. …No, Kanda didn't tell me. …Actually, it's okay because Kanda is a total jerk, but that's what makes him so loveable."

Lenalee winced as her British friend on the other line disagreed with her 'loveable' comment. Loudly.

"Anyway!" she interrupted quickly. "What about Lavi? Is he going? …You don't know? Aren't you guys going out? –Whoa, I was kidding! You are _too_ sensitive, buddy." Seriously, she was getting this total suspicion that he was gay, if only because of his passionate rejections of the notion and his bad habit of attracting members of the same sex. "All right, all right. Call you later!" She hung up.

The girl ran back into the kitchen.

"On a scale from one to ten," she said, rushed. "How likely is it that Kanda is a fag with the radical hots for Allen?"

Komui paused, and gave her a long hard look.

"Eight. Point five."

----

June 12th, 1985.

"Hey. Take a condom." Lavi placed one in Allen's open palm. "You might need it."

Allen looked down at it. "Lavi," he started in a tone one octave lower than his usual thickly accented tenor. "I believe we might've gone a little too far. Thereforth, you have five seconds to take this…_thing_ from my hand and never show it to me again. Ever. If not, then I will punch you in the face. With my left arm." He smiled stiffly.

"Oh _God_," the redhead gasped, covering his face as he bent over, half-crippled in laughter. "You—You're fuckin' _hilarious_! Holy shit that was hard to do with a straight face, you've _got_ to believe me." He peeked through his open fingers to glance at Allen's less-than-impressed face, and he bent over farther. "Dude, dude, quit it! Christ, I'll have a conniption at this rate!"

"Right." The white-haired boy tossed the plastic square back at him, which he caught. "Don't ever show that to me again. I will _seriously_ knock you a new one, and chances are I'll enjoy it."

"All right, all right." Lavi, with his laughter somewhat calmed, held up his hands in surrender. "My bad. I'm sorry. Hug?"

"Lavi—" Allen groaned in a whining tone, but grinned as the older teen wrapped his arms around him. He hugged back tightly. "It's too hard to stay mad at you, I say."

"That's the point, Brit ol' Boy," the one-eyed teenager replied easily. "All right, so do you have all your stuff?"

"I believe so," the British teenager said, patting down his pants pockets.

"Got your keys?"

Allen checked his side fashion-statement chain that ran from a belt loop to his front pocket. "Of course."

"Got your watch to keep up with the time?"

He felt his wrist. "Mm hmm." But, who cares? It was probably broken anyway at this rate.

"Got your ass?"

He patted his back pockets. "Still there."

"Well, protect it." Lavi took off one of his many bracelets and gave it to Allen. "It's a lucky charm. Kind of. Maybe. Almost. Not really."

"Thanks. I suppose." Allen took the bracelet suspiciously and slipped it onto his own wrist. It was a bright orange color, and it felt like his fashion sense was slowly dying by wearing it.

"Awesome." Lavi patted him on the back. "So, make sure you have fun and that you show Old Man Tiedoll enough smiles for the both of you."

"Not a problem, especially since I'm bringing Tim."

The yellow dog perked up at his name, a toothy grin on his mouth. "Hrmm?" he yawned, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

"Tim?" the redhead looked down at the dog (who was growing much, _much_ faster than he'd ever seen any dog grow). "Um. Does Yuu know that Tim's coming?"

Allen ruffled Timcanpy's ears. "No, but he will. I need _one_ person that I know to be there with me."

"But. You'll have Yuu." Lavi paused. "And Tim's not a real person, are you juiced?"

"Timcanpy is my best friend!" the younger teen huffed. "And I will treat him like one." Timcanpy wandered upstairs to get some water and maybe a few bites in his chew toy.

"Okay, okay!" the eighteen-year-old made a placating gesture with his hands. "Dogs are people too, I get it. Dork."

The white-haired boy rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say," he replied. Checking his watch, he sighed in a bored tone. "Where in the world _is_ he? He lives, well, down the bloody street!"

"Shh," Lavi shushed, holding a hand to his ear. "Do you hear that?"

Allen strained to listen to whatever his older friend was hearing. "Hear what?" he asked.

"_That_."

"I don't hear anything."

The older teenager rolled his eye and reached out to grab Allen by the back of his hair. He pressed the boy's ear to the door, and held a finger up to his lips.

The sound was low, but it was definitely odd.

It was the sound of an incoming aged vehicle, but much, _much_ faster than the motor was used to allowing.

And, Allen noted with a frown, it was coming _closer_.

Opening the door, he looked out towards the street.

A gray Chevy van, one more than familiar, came to a screeching a painful halt in front of Allen's house, smoke wafting dangerously from the skid marks in the cement.

Kanda rolled down the passenger window in time for a smaller, sleeker car to zoom by at an also unhealthy speed for a neighborhood area. "Fuck you Grandma!" he yelled in the direction of the other car. He flipped the driver his middle finger. "You didn't win! You'll never fuckin' win! Yeah, keep driving! Get bent!"

"Dear _Lord_," Allen groaned. "I think I'm ashamed to have him in front of the house."

"Damn, I am too." Lavi rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Seriously, what the fuck was _that_?"

Kanda stepped out of his van and slammed the door, fixing his ponytail at the nape of his neck. "All right," he said gruffly. "Let's roll, brat."

"Not until I find out what all _that_ was about." Allen crossed his arms.

The Japanese teenager rolled his eyes. "Old lady tried to cut me," he explained. "So I was all 'fuck no' and cut _her_, then she got all juiced and went all fucking nitro on me, and she _so_ wanted a race. So, I gave her one."

"And you _lost_?" Lavi commented, snickering.

Kanda narrowed his eyes. "I didn't _lose_, dickweed," he growled. "I _stopped_. Don't try me, Cyclops. I will beat your ass."

"Sure, sure," the redhead grinned, waving a hand in dismissal. "It's okay, I totally believe you."

"Good. Now, loser, let's go."

"All right." Allen held two fingers to his lips and whistled. "Timcanpy!"

"Whoa, why the _fuck_ are you calling the dog?"

"Why else?"

Timcanpy scampered out, obviously excited to see Kanda. "Woof!" he barked, jumping on the tall teen.

Kanda, with a look of barely hidden panic on his face, glared at Allen. "No," he snapped. "The dog _isn't_ coming. Jesus Christ, this mutt is trying to lick my face! How the fuck did he get so damn _big_?"

"Isn't he?" Lavi stepped behind the dog and grabbed him underneath his front legs. Timcanpy was forced to stay in a standing position, and he looked up at Lavi's grinning face with his own toothy smile. "I love this dog, man. But the teeth are fucking _lethal._"

"Tim isn't going to do a thing," Allen said, sniffing. "He's a sweetheart, unlike _you_."

"I'm not _trying_ to be a sweetheart," Kanda grounded out, trying to get out of the dog's golden-eyed sight. "I'm trying to get to this _fucking_ lunch so I can have it _fucking_ over with. Now, let's go, and leave the mutt."

"Nope." Allen smirked. "If Tim doesn't go, then I don't go." The mocking stretch of lips widened. "And if I don't go, then ickle Andy'll be all by _himself_ with his big bad family." The white-haired boy pulled a false look of distress. "Imagine the horrors."

"I'm going to kick your ass," Kanda snapped, flicking a wayward bang out of the way of his eyes.

"No, you're going to let Tim come."

"How about this: No. Simple, ace?"

The British boy snapped his fingers. "Or, we can get even _simpler_." He smiled. "A bet, if you will."

"Don't do it!" Lavi cried, his expression bleak. "You're gonna lose, man!" His wallet was still sensitive, Allen thought in amusement.

"Lose?" Kanda looked interested. "I don't lose. What's the bet?"

"We'll play rock-paper-scissors," the white-haired boy explained, grinning. "Two out of three, of course. If I win, Timcanpy comes. If you win, Timcanpy _doesn't_ come. Simple, no or yes?"

"Hmm," Kanda hummed lowly in thought, eyes on Allen's gloved hands. "All right."

"All _right_." Allen grinned harder. "Let's play."

----

"Seven outta eight!" Kanda snapped, glaring at his traitorous hands that failed to win a single game.

Allen waved his right hand mockingly. "This can go on forever, Kanda," he replied. "But, you'll only be late for your little lunch. Admit defeat."

"Fuck you," the Japanese teen retorted. "I don't lose."

"Ha," the younger boy barked a laugh. "Everybody loses. Well, except for _me_, but that's a different story. Now, let's go, and let's show Tim a good time at the park."

Kanda clenched his fist, obviously dead set on using 'rock' for the umpteenth time. "Fine," he snarled. "But if that mutt shits in my fucking van, I'm throwing the both of you out in moving traffic. _Believe_ me."

"Tim, you get to come!" Allen cooed, bending down on a knee and flipping the dog's ears up straight playfully. "Isn't this blinding?"

"Woof!" Timcanpy licked the boy's face.

Lavi bent down. "You cheated like hell," he commented lowly.

"And?" Allen shrugged. "A win is a win, no matter how I got it."

"Huh, that's some harsh advice. I'll remember it, fer sure."

"You do that." The boy walked to the van, where Kanda stood irritably in front of the back open doors. He waved in leave. "I'll call you later!"

Lavi waved back, grinning. "You should totally be naked when you do!"

----

"Where the hell was that guy?" Kanda asked as they drove towards the park, which was only a few blocks away, and a car wasn't nearly as necessary as one might've thought.

Allen graced him with a deadpan look. "I know a lot of guys, Kanda. Be more specific, would you?"

"That creep that suddenly entered your life again. With the goatee. And the glasses."

"My _uncle_? Cross?" the gray-eyed boy snorted. "Excuse _mon français_, but I couldn't _possibly_ give less of a damn." He sniffed. "I'm not his keeper."

"Never said you were," Kanda muttered distractedly, turning into the park's parking lot. His eyes narrowed. "Damn, all the cars are here. _Shit_."

Allen looked forward, interested. "So, they're already here?"

"_Doy_." The van came to a halt about nine parking spaces away from his family's cars, and Kanda tugged the gear into park. "Don't embarrass me, brat," he said in a threatening tone.

"Oh, but of _course_ not." The British teenager rolled his eyes. "Don't bother my dog, then."

"I wouldn't touch that mutt with a ten-foot pole." The driver side door was kicked open, and the older teenager hopped out.

"Arooo…" Timcanpy whined, pressing his wet nose to the window in the back. Allen unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car, rushing to the back to let out his dog.

"Don't cry, Tim," he murmured, opening the metal doors. The yellow mixed dog jumped down to the cement ground, his curled tail wagging, and wandered over to Kanda.

The guitarist stepped away. "Fuck no you don't," he growled, walking backwards every time the dog got closer. "Keep away from me!"

"Woof!" Timcanpy barked cheerfully, pawing at the spot where Kanda once was standing. The long-haired man had taken off towards the grassy park, hopping over the gate and not giving any indication towards stopping.

The dog, with a vaguely satanic tint to his grin, chased after him.

Allen looked devastated. "Tim!" he groaned, walking to the actual walkway leading into the park. "I need to put on your leash! Come back!"

"Oh, shit, that's your dog?" an amused voice commented from behind him, and he looked around to see the grinning, make-up molested face of that one foster brother of Kanda's who's name he couldn't remember for the _life_ of him.

The fifteen-year-old made a low sound of frustration as he snapped his fingers. "Err, Danny, am I right?" he tried, a weak smile on his lips.

The man looked almost offended. "Yeah, _no_. Daisya Barry," Daisya grinned, holding out a hand. "Uh, Aaron Rocker, right?"

"Completely wrong." Allen shook the hand with a laugh. "I'm Allen Walker. According to Lavi, I'm here to keep Kanda company while he tries to ignore your existence."

"Oh man, we've needed you for _years_, dude." Daisya ran his fingers underneath his dark blue beanie cap as he grinned harder. "Aren't you that white-haired kid from McDonald's? Yeah, you're the only albeano-whatever I've seen."

"I'm not _albino_," Allen corrected, huffing. "It was trauma, and hair products. But, yes, I did go to McDonald's. How do you know?" He cocked a suspicious eyebrow.

"How _don't_ I know?" the man pressed his fingers to the corners of his lips and pulled them up in a mocking smile. "Ronald McDonald, baby. Trippendicular, right or right? Well, except for when I got floored by Kanda, but that's just life."

"Why, that was _you_?" the young man blinked in surprise. "I forgot mascots were real people too, I apologize."

Daisya laughed, his being a high-pitched, lilting sound that reminded Allen of clowns. "Harsh, kid, but it's cool," he replied. "You're a riot."

Kanda took this time to grab Allen by the collar of his shirt and shoved him in the direction of the dog only feet away. The boy yelped as he landed on the ground, with his dog stepping on him while still following the older teen. "Fuck this!" the Japanese guitarist cursed, running farther down the park.

His older ex-foster brother cackled. "Don't run _that_ way, man!" he crowed. "You know Old Man Tie—"

"You look like you're having fun, Yuu," Tiedoll commented loudly, smiling widely as his used-to-be-foster son jumped over the tarp on the grassy ground. "Can I join in?"

"Kill yourself!"

The sandy-haired man chuckled, and spotted Timcanpy, who came to a halt and was sniffing the picnic basket with clear interest. "What a sweet dog!" he said cheerfully, waving the dog closer to him. "Is this what you're running from, Yuu?"

Kanda, breathing heavily, sat down roughly a few feet away from the tarp and Tiedoll. "Keep that fuckin' mutt away," he rasped, running his hands through his inky hair. "Or, I'll do something—uh—do something—"

Allen smiled charmingly. "Sound it out, Kanda."

"Shut up brat!" the Japanese teen furrowed his eyebrows. "I'll do something…drastic. Yeah. Drastic."

A shadow fell over him, and Kanda looked up irritably. "Didn't know you were afraid of dogs, Kanda," his oldest ex-foster brother commented, stepping around him with an amiable smile. "Well, I didn't know you were afraid of _jack_, really. You were always that kid who was all unafraid and stuff."

"I didn't know you liked to _talk_ so much, Marie," Kanda snapped back. "Oh, wait, yes I did. Leave me alone, I'm not afraid of it." Noise Marie, owner of _BlackOut_, just shook his head with a smile as he sat on the tarp close to his old foster father.

Daisya looked skeptical. "Dude, you were minutes away from screaming like a bitch. And it was funny."

"He has a point there," Allen stated with a dismissing wave of his hands. "I'm going to have to tell Lavi and Lenalee this, just so you know."

"Yeah, 'cause you're as gossipy as you are bitchy." The guitarist flipped the middle finger at him, and Tiedoll looked offended.

"That was rude, Yuu," he scolded, covering Timcanpy's eyes. "Don't use those kinds of gestures, nobody likes them."

Kanda flipped him off too.

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "What about language?" he asked Tiedoll. "I mean, Cross would destroy me if I made one profane statement at him, but what about you?"

Daisya snapped his fingers. "Oh, man, he's totally cool with it!" he exclaimed. "Watch this," he turned to Kanda. "Hey, Jap, fuck you!"

"Yeah, well, fuck you too, GI Joe."

Tiedoll simply shook his head, none too subtly rolling his brown eyes behind his glasses.

The British boy looked at Marie, who huffed. "You don't curse?"

"They can fuck each other all they want," Marie deadpanned. "I'm not gonna join in. Besides, mindless cursing is childish and lame."

"I think I like you." Allen sat closer to Marie. "Even if the bouncer for your club manhandled me to the point where I still feel violated."

"Yeah, my bad. Chaoji's cool, though, always chill." The bald man stretched his muscled arms. "He's on his way, Tiedoll. Just so you know."

"Great!" the man clapped his hands together, his glasses somewhat slipping down his nose. Tiedoll pushed the spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose as he smiled. "So, how is Cross?" he asked Allen.

Allen smiled. "I'm going to kill him."

"Of course you are. Is he in jail yet?"

"Not exactly, but I had to hotwire a Turbo once since his car ran out of gas," the teenager licked his dry lips. "And we somehow got the bill off of our trail."

"That's wonderful." Tiedoll shook his head, scratching between Timcanpy's ears. "The man was always an insufferable prick, no offense. I love him, though, as a good friend."

"No, it's okay, I understand completely." The white-haired boy shrugged. "I just don't love him as much as I hate his bloody guts. He's going to die."

"I'm sure." The French man reached over to ruffle his hair. "I'm kind of sorry that you had to be in his custody."

"_Kind of_?" Allen believed that, in order to be a functioning member of society, he deserved some pity for being related to Cross Marian. Being under his custody, though, was a different story, and required at least one's full extent of sympathy, including offers to lunch because he must've been underfed and abused.

It was more effective than most people thought, Cross included.

"Well, you're such a nice young man that he must've done a great job with raising you."

"Oh _no_." Allen held up his hands. "I'm self-raised. That man had _nothing_ to do with it."

Kanda snorted. "Shut up, brat. He _loves_ you." His tone was overly sarcastic.

"He doesn't _love_ me like Timcanpy _loves_ you, dimwit. Don't you boy?" Allen smiled at his dog, ruffling his half-perked ears.

"Woof."

"I'll kill you so fast your uncle'll feel the burn," Kanda sniffed in offense. "Keep that mutt _away_ from me."

"Of course," Allen hugged Timcanpy's neck. "He'll always love me more. Won't you Tim?" The dog nuzzled his cheek, his tongue poking out his mouth.

"Marie, do you have your Polaroid?" Tiedoll asked.

"Nope. But, now I feel bad for not having it," Marie grinned. "I want a dog like that. That would be _too_ harsh."

"You're making me want to puke," Kanda muttered. "Fuck these new cavities in my teeth, you and your dog-loving fagness."

Allen narrowed his eyes. "_Fagness_ is not a word," he said. "And I am _not_ gay."

"Right. Tell that to my—" A hand covered his mouth.

Chaoji grinned. "Don't go there, Kanda," he said lightly. "It's kinda gay too."

Kanda practically ripped the older man's palm from his mouth. "You touch me again," he threatened. "I'll make sure you're breathing through tubes for your twenty-second birthday."

"Whoa, calm down." The Asian man sat next to Kanda, obviously enthralled to be able to do so. "Hey Tiedoll, hey Daisya."

"What's chillin', Mr. Roboto?" the dark-haired man greeted. He sighed, plopping back on the tarp, arms crossed underneath his head. "Feels like it's been forever since I've seen all of you at the same time."

"Yeah, well, we don't live together anymore, remember?" Chaoji replied.

Marie nodded in agreement. "I kinda miss the days where we all lived in the same house. Kinda."

"I still wish you all were dead," Kanda growled, arms tightly crossed. "I want to go home."

"Not until we eat, Yuu," Tiedoll scolded.

Allen perked up, interested. "Food?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, we'll be eating in a few moments. At least, once Kanda quits popping the fuck-you finger at Tiedoll," Marie narrowed his eyes at his youngest ex-foster brother.

"Fuck you." The finger changed directions.

----

Daisya Barry, as Allen was quick to learn, loved pranks and games.

They usually weren't that funny.

"Ha," Allen laughed blandly, flicking the gummy worm out of his sandwich. "Thank you, but try again."

"Why're you so sure it was me? Huh, Whitey?"

"Why _aren't_ I sure?"

"Damn, got me in the _face_." The pale man huffed, and took a bigger bite of his sandwich than was necessary.

Kanda glared at his wrapped sandwich. "I don't _like_ beef," he grounded out. "I keep _telling_ you this, old man, and you don't fucking listen!"

Allen looked at the sandwich. "I love beef," he announced. "And, I think beef and I could have a beautiful relationship."

"Take it." The guitarist threw the sandwich at the younger teen, who caught it rather eagerly. Timcanpy whined from his spot on Allen's lap, eyes wide.

"No Tim," the white-haired teenager scolded lightly. "I already gave you half of a half of a quarter of my sandwich. I think you should be as fit as a fiddle."

"Arooo…"

Tiedoll tore half of his sandwich. "He's so sweet," the man cooed, holding the food out to Timcanpy. The dog's sharp teeth tore into the soft sandwich, and the man retracted his hand quickly at the sight of them. "But, those teeth are _dangerous_."

"I know, right?" Kanda grumbled.

Allen rolled his eyes. "Oh, you act like he's had a bite at you before," the pianist stated, huffing.

"He chewed my fucking leg the first day I went to your house, hoser!" Kanda snapped, pointing at the jean-clad victim of a leg. "You gave him a Scooby Snack for solving the fucking mystery on how my legs taste in a dog's mouth!"

"I'm telling you, Kanda. I feed him to scold him."

"Well, it's totally fucking _working_." He rubbed his temples. "You know what? Bag your face. Talking to you is like getting cancer, fuckin' _kills_ me."

"Damn," Daisya heckled, his dark eyes wide.

"Hmm…" Allen hummed, his gray eyes narrowed. He stood up, dusting off the back of his jeans. "You, Kanda, are a completely thick _arse_." He made an insulted expression. "My Lord, I've never met more of a jerk than you!"

Kanda shrugged, yawning. He covered his mouth loosely. "Better for me. I was going for the grand championship."

Timcanpy narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth, which made Kanda glare back at the dog, moments away from baring his own teeth. The yellow mix growled lowly in his throat, and Allen flicked him between the eyes.

"Leave him alone," he scolded. "He's being a jerk, sure, but that's no reason to go about biting him. Don't give me that! You were bloody damned about to chew the mess out of his leg."

The dog huffed, looking away.

Marie tried to swallow his sandwich, but the urge to stare at the display between the owner and the dog was rather overwhelming.

"Right," Allen smiled, pleased at Timcanpy's compliance. "I'll be taking a walk. For some reason, I have this terrible urge to tell Kanda to go to hell." He grinned. "Oh, wait, too late."

"Don't come back."

"Dude, I think I love your boyfriend—" Daisya whispered as the white-haired boy walked away, but didn't exactly get to finish his statement as Kanda grabbed him by the neck and slammed his head onto the ground.

He did not look happy. "Say that again," he snarled, tightening his grip. "I dare you, double-dog dare you, deadbeat—say it again!"

"Whoa!" Chaoji, with experience in removing people off others, hooked his arm around Kanda's neck and pulled roughly. "What's your problem?!"

With a rasping breath, Kanda shoved him away, rubbing his neck. "That _brat_ is not my boyfriend," he grumbled. "Quit saying that."

Daisya coughed as he massaged his own neck, sitting up straight. "I totally forgive you because you sound mega-pitiful." He grinned. "Like you _want_ to be his boyfriend, you fag. But, it's all good, because _damn_ that kid is brand new."

Tiedoll shook his head at the display, a small smile on his face.

"Jesus Christ, Kanda! Don't kill him! He's, like, barely twenty!"

"Fuck that, Marie! I'm making sure you have one less birthday to celebrate you ungrateful dweeb!"

"Hey, I need my twenty-first birthday!"

"No, you _need_ to shut the fuck up and fucking _die_."

----

Allen heard the screams, of course. He was kind of worried, but then again, he was positive that Tiedoll or Marie might do something to intercede the killing intent. Maybe Chaoji, but he wasn't too sure.

The young man walked to the low lake near the middle of the park, and marveled at the near empty bench near the edge of the water.

With sigh, he sat on the wooden seat, crossing his legs.

"That didn't sound chill," the other person commented, his voice deep and melodic. "Need a cigarette?"

Allen turned to look at the man and smiled. "No thanks, I'm underaged—" the smile fell slightly. "Mikk."

Tyki Mikk perked up at the sound of his name and looked over at the teenager. "Allen," he said, surprised. "Didn't see you there."

"Clearly, since you were offering me cigarettes."

The wavy-haired man waved a hand in dismissal. "Nah," he denied. "I offer everyone cigarettes. Usually the morning after, but whatever." He leered. "I haven't seen you in weeks, since that, err, _incident_. What's up, baby?"

"Don't call me baby." Of all the _luck_. That was _so_ not an incident. "Why do you look like you just came from church?"

Tyki tugged at his dress pant legs, cocking an eyebrow. "Church? Sorry, there aren't any churches that support my religion." He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth in annoyance at the fact.

"Religion? What are you, Muslim?" Allen asked, a frown on his face.

"What? No!" the Portuguese man huffed. "I'm part of the Church of Noah."

"I've never heard of it. What's so ace about it?"

The man shrugged. "I believe all of mankind should be eliminated," he explained nonchalantly. "It's pretty simple."

Allen blinked. "Erm, wow, that's—"

"Well, except for you, because God _had_ to've had a direct hand in _that._" He motioned lewdly towards the entirety of Allen's body.

The boy brought his hands to his forehead and rubbed his temples. "How is your music going?" he asked instead, feeling the headache from Tyki edge at his mind. "You have a single out, right?"

"We've got two. Awesome, right?"

"Right."

"But," Tyki sighed. "The company wants to release our album on CD."

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "Compact Disc?"

"That's the one." The Portuguese man frowned. "I can't say I trust the things, but whatever. Davie and Jazzy were freaked to find out."

"Does anyone really even _have_ a CD player yet?"

"I sure as hell don't, and I know most of my family doesn't."

"I'd talk to them about that." The British boy replied with concern. "You can't exactly sell something when nobody has the technology."

"That's what I said." Tyki smiled. "Great minds think alike, baby."

"Calm down, and don't call me baby."

"Sure, sure." The man stretched his legs and reached into a pant pocket. Pulling out his wallet, he opened the flip and searched through a plethora of cards that showed the man obviously had connections.

Allen would have to remember that.

"There we go—" Tyki muttered, pulling out a thin inverse checkerboard designed business card. "Our record company is pretty interested in the Black Order," he explained, smirking. "So, if you want to talk to someone, look for the Millennium Earl. He'll definitely hear you out."

"Well, thanks Mikk," He must've been hitting the record company jackpot or something. "This is very sweet of you."

"Alright then, right here," the dark-skinned man pointed at his cheek. "I'd like a kiss."

Allen narrowed his eyes. "You know I'm not going to give you one, right?"

"Well, that's just too damn bad," Tyki moved closer, his arm slipping behind the teenager's back. He smiled with a perverse tint. "It's just one kiss."

"That's what I can say about the first one," the British boy deadpanned, pushing the man's face away with a single finger. "And, I think you need to remember how much of a disaster _that_ was."

"Well, now your two friends aren't here, so it's cool."

"Dear _God_—"

"Hey, brat!" Kanda's eternally pissed-off voice called, and there were steps coming closer. Tyki backed up so fast Allen felt his hair mused by the wind. "Where the hell are you?"

"Are you serious?" the man asked, an eyebrow cocked. "Did you know he was going to come?"

"Not at all." Allen stood up, grinning and dusting off his pants. "But, I'm pretty happy he did. Cheers, Mikk!"

"Call me Tyki." The man waved him goodbye, a smile on his lips.

The fifteen-year-old walked swiftly back towards the family picnic area, rubbing his arm nervously.

Kanda stood in his path, hands stuck cockily in his pants pockets. "Brat," he greeted. "Where'd you go?"

"To the lake—wait, why do you _care_?" Allen crossed his arms with a cocked eyebrow. "Honestly, I can say less to you, especially considering how you are a total jerk to a high degree."

"Look, brat, about the cancer shit," the Japanese guitarist snapped, looking away. "I didn't mean it. I was just being mean. Or something. The hell if I know. Let's go."

Allen tried to keep a straight face, but the smile was getting harder to resist. "If that was an apology," he replied, following Kanda. "Then that was a really half-arsed way of going about it."

"Then it wasn't an apology, dumbass." Kanda rubbed the back of his neck, scowling. "Your dog is bitching to Tiedoll like it's fucking Bambi or something. Make him shut up."

"If you'd give Tim a _chance_, then maybe you could be good friends." He was lying, and it was pretty obvious with how the older teenager glared.

"Shut up. You just want the mutt to chew me."

"Yes," Allen said honestly. "Yes, I do."

Kanda shoved him in an almost playful manner. "Yeah, well, fuck you too."

* * *

Oh my god I love Wham!. WAKE ME UP, BEFORE YOU GO-GO, DON'T LEAVE ME HANGIN' ON LIKE A YO-YO--tell me that line is not EPIC.

So, yeah. Kanda/Allen. Yay. Tyki/Allen. Yay (in my opinion). Lavi/Allen. There needs to be moar. D: Emi needs the pairing like a drug or something. At least that's what she was telling me on the phone, like "update because I need Laven" and I'm all "dude, we discussed this chapter and how unLaven it was" and she's all "okay, well, I still need the update" and there you have it. :D

Daisya was more fun to write than you will ever know. :)

Hopefully it is to your standards. And Tim needs to be in your standards.

I want a dog like him. D: (lol I just want a dog, actually)

Here's a kinda fun fact: For the past twenty chapters, I usually listened to various eighties bands and music to get a better feel for the time and the pace of the 80s. But, for this chapter, it was nothing but Pokémon. My Pokémon soundtrack was loud as hell, and I couldn't turn it off because of intense nostalgia. D: So, yeah, next chapter, I'm definitely going back to Tears for Fears and Pet Shop Boys (who are lolriffic and homo).


	22. My Philosophy

_TWENTY-TWO_

June 15th, 1985.

"Hey, brat," Cross started, obviously annoyed with having to communicate with his nephew. "How serious are you?"

Allen looked at his uncle, who lounged on the couch lazily. The man held a thick, beige remote control in his hand, and he strived to find the perfect channel for his entertainment.

"What do you mean?" the fifteen-year-old asked, looking down at a few chewed pages of piano sheet music and not bothering to tell his guardian that he sabotaged the antenna so that the more unsuitable channels were hidden by a _lot_ of static.

"This music thing."

"Am I serious with my music?" Allen questioned, not understanding where the man was going with this.

"If I'm repeating myself, then consider your ass _beat_," Cross huffed as he hit another channel chocked full of static and vague noises that sounded interesting. "That piano of yours, the one that your dad bought for you—"

"Actually," the British teenager interrupted, annoyed. "_You_ bought me that _synthesizer_, you drunken twat. My father's piano, well, it's a little incapacitated at the moment."

"That's right." The redhead snapped his fingers in remembrance. "That shit burned _down_. Damn, sorry kid."

Allen knew that if he gripped the papers in his hand any tighter, they'd definitely rip. "Mm hmm," he agreed instead, and rather tensely. "Why do you care?"

"I always care, you little bastard." Cross sniffed, as though he were insulted. "Lee's telling me about his little sister's cocked-up story about you, her, the other girl, and the redhead."

"Hmm?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. But, anyway, he's saying that you all seem pretty serious with this band crap. What's the band called? _Fag Parade_?"

"We are not _Queen_, uncle." Allen huffed. "_Black Order_, and please remember it."

"What the hell? Brat, I never forget." The redhead looked offended at how he could even be accused of such.

The teenager hummed in disinterest. "How old am I?" he asked distractedly.

The channel was changed again for the umpteenth time. "Twelve."

A clean rip shot through half of the paper in his hands. "I'm actually fifteen," he corrected with a smile. "What a fantastic memory you have, you twat."

"Wait. When'd you turn fifteen?" Cross furrowed his eyebrows. "And why the _hell_ do you look like a little girl, or at least a gay boy—wait, never mind, don't answer that." He waved his hand in dismissal.

_He's going to die_, Allen sang in his thoughts with a wider smile. _And he will definitely go to hell, God help him!_ "Of course not. As well, I'm not gay."

"Yeah, yeah." The hazel-eyed man clicked the remote again with annoyance. "Back to the matter I was talking about. Are you serious about this stuff?"

"The band? Didn't Komui take the time out of his life—"

"He said the _band_ was serious, dumbass." Cross rolled his eyes behind his ever-present glasses. "But, I'm asking about _you_. So, what?"

"What are you saying _now_?"

"Are _you_, not as one with the fag-parade, but as _yourself_, serious?"

"I'm—" Allen paused in his sentence, mulling over his thoughts.

Placing the papers on his lap, the teenager tapped his chin in thought as he considered the question.

"Fuck this," Cross snapped, tossing the remote on the couch. "I'm going out. Don't bother coming after me, but I'll be at wherever the cops aren't."

"Mm hmm." Allen hummed distractedly.

"I expect an answer by the time I get back."

"Yeah…"

"Lock the door."

"Sure."

"Bye."

"Right."

----

June 16th, 1985.

Cross had stumbled home at one in the morning.

Allen was truly offended at how the first thing out the drunken bastard's mouth was a simple "Are you?"

"You're bloody pissed," the white-haired boy groaned, half-asleep, dragging the heavier body to the couch. "You don't know what you're talking about, uncle."

"Shut the hell up, brat." Cross replied, rubbing his temples. "I'm not even that drunk. I'm, like, almost drunk. Not there yet, but _almost_."

"Shut _up_." Dear _Lord_ talking to the man was like having a nail constantly slammed into your head, a big, consistent headache. "Go to sleep."

"Hey, are you serious?" Cross grumbled, and Allen shoved him onto the couch. "When I get up, you won't be able to walk straight for a _week_ when I beat your disobedient ass."

"Right, _whatever_." Allen clicked his tongue in disdain, checking his watch. One twenty-nine, he could handle that. "I'll see you in the morning, uncle."

"I'm going to kill you, little punk."

The somewhat-slurred threats followed the fifteen-year-old all the way up to his room, where he shut the door loudly, signaling the conversation over. Of course, he was _so_ dead in the morning, but he'll worry about that later.

Right now, he had to worry about his answer.

And it was pretty pitiful, because despite all of his thinking, he simply couldn't find one.

----

June 17th, 1985.

"Do you tell Komui _everything_?" Allen asked, an eyebrow cocked. It was getting too silent, and the garage—dare he even _think_ it—was rather bare without the two older boys, even with all the clutter and instruments and this godforsaken couch the two sat on while eating their lunch.

It still seemed like it had hidden fleas, no matter how many times he looked at it.

Lenalee looked at her younger friend, a straw hanging from between her glossy pink lips. "Do I?" she asked, sipping at her bottle of Coca-Cola slowly. "Well, sort of. He's my big bro, and like a parent to me. I tell him what I feel like telling him."

"Right," the white-haired boy rolled his gray eyes. "Just know that those little things you tell him, he tells Cross, and Cross tells—well, confronts _me_ like it's all my fault."

"Oh. Well, he's hot." She let the straw linger between her lips for a few seconds. "Hey, you think that if I kind-of sort-of let Komui know what kind of guys I like, he'll—"

"I'll die. No, really," Allen took a bite from his sandwich. "I will be murdered. Now, if you want my death on your conscience, then go ahead. But, until then, just know that I haven't even finished high school yet and my first kiss was not consensual either time—"

"Okay, okay," she replied, flicking him on the forehead with a smile. "I won't do it."

He batted her hands away from his face playfully. "Well," he said. "Did you talk to Mr. Chan quite yet?"

"What? Oh, no," Lenalee waved a hand in dismissal. "I was planning on doing that later, when everyone is here. I'd hate for Lavi and Kanda to both miss out on something down like this."

"Hmm." This sandwich was simply fantastic. He needed four more, and pronto. "May I have another sandwich?"

"Yeah, sure. Bring me back a Coke!" She waved him off.

Allen stood up, brushing off the legs of his fitted stonewashed jeans, and walked towards the garage door leading into the house.

The door slammed open, and Lavi jumped down the stairs, slamming into Allen, "Oh, shit," he cursed, frowning and reaching out forward to grab the younger teenager before he fell onto the ground. Unfortunately, it was him versus gravity, and he got pulled into the mess as well.

In a tangle of limbs that could usually be produced during an especially bad game of Twister, the two friends lay in a human heap on the concrete ground. "Urgh," Allen groaned from beneath Lavi's chest, pushing at him weakly. "Get the bloody hell _off_ of me! I can't exactly breathe down here!"

"Hey, my bad," the redhead said with a cheerful smile, standing up shakily and with some difficulties. He offered a hand, which Allen took gratefully, and grinned sheepishly. "I was too psyched, and the excitement got me right in the membrane." Lavi bit his bottom lip in joy. "And, while we're still at it—wanna know something fuckin' A for _awesome_?"

The white-haired boy looked suspicious. Lavi had an odd perception of what was good and what was, well, _not_ so good. "Of course," he answered with a small smile.

"All right!" the eighteen-year-old grinned. "I got a job!"

Allen blinked slowly. "A job."

"A _job_. A Grade-A, primo, money-flashin' J-O-B."

Lenalee looked impressed. "I never thought you'd get one of _those_," she commented, uncrossing her legs and standing up. "No offense, but I just thought you'd be a money-haggling, pot-smoking hoser until you turned twenty-one."

"Yeah, well, so did I." Lavi sniffed, offended. "_Not_. I was the smartest fuckin' kid in my old school that they'd had in, what, _twenty years_. Gimme some _credit_ here!"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry for calling you a hoser."

"But for nothing else?" The redhead huffed, grabbing Allen in a one-armed half hug. "Let's go Al, and we can celebrate my awesome accomplishment. Physically."

Allen narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what the bloody hell you mean, but I'm pretty sure it was something dirty and queer to a high degree."

"Nah, it's just me being _me_, baby."

"Don't call me baby."

"Hoser!" Kanda's angry baritone sounded through the enclosed space. "You left your shit in the back of the van!" The oldest teenager stomped down the short flight of stairs, his dirty Converse leaving a muddy red trail and his dark bangs sticking to his face. "It's _raining_ and I don't feel like stomping around in that fucking Southern red dirt!"

Lenalee looked insulted. "So you thought it was better to stomp around in my house with the Southern red dirt?" she asked instead.

"Yeah," the Japanese teenager rubbed his muddy shoes on the ground for exaggeration. "It's not like your creep of a brother would care."

"Dude, cool out with that stuff." She frowned. "I try to keep the place _clean_ at least."

"Right, okay." Kanda obviously was half-listening as he glanced at Allen underneath Lavi's one-armed embrace, the boy grinning at whatever the older teenager was whispering in his ear. He scowled. Maybe he should kick the white-haired boy into that godforsaken Southern red dirt and see him smile then.

Allen laughed, shoving Lavi away playfully. "You are such a twat," he teased.

"Hey, only for you." The redhead ruffled his white hair happily.

"Right," Lenalee hit her open palm with her fist. "Let's call Mr. Bak Chan!" she suggested with a smile. "We need to show the city, state, and US of A that we're getting serious here!"

It was a shame that even at the mention of 'serious' in relation to the band, the trademark smile of Allen faltered visibly. "Mm hmm," he hummed in response instead. "Let's do that, then."

"All right!" She hooked her arm with Kanda's, who looked at her, clearly startled that she still existed. "Let's get to the phone, Andy."

"When the _fuck_ did you—wait, don't call me Andy!" He looked offended at the mere notion of that being his name. "What are we doing, again?"

"You weren't listening?"

"Uh. _Doy_." Kanda rolled his eyes. "If I don't remember what you said, then I'm pretty sure I wasn't listening to a damn word."

"Hey, don't get smart with me, Diesel." She poked his stomach roughly. "We're about to call Mr. Chan, that guy Allen met in the bathroom." Her voice and Kanda's eternal unneeded comments trailed off as they walked into the house, closing the door behind them.

With the sound of the rain tapping loudly on the metal garage door, Lavi shook Allen's shoulder's lightly. "Hey," he started, an eyebrow cocked. "What was _that_ about?"

"That?"

"You know, the freaky-weak smiling thing. It kind of deaked me out, to tell you the truth."

Allen looked over at him, tapping his index finger on his chin in thought. "Lavi," he said. "About this band…"

"Yeah, what about it? Do I like it? Do I love it? Do I love _you_? Well, yeah, yes, and _duh_—"

"No. And, quit with those comments, they're random and queer." Allen waved a hand in dismissal. "When it comes to this band, are you, err, _serious_?"

"Serious?" Lavi repeated, a confused expression on his face. "Uh, when you say serious, what do you mean, really?"

"I mean…" He motioned his hand in the manner of thinking, rotating his wrist and a frown on his pale face. "Would this…be…your career?"

"Of course not."

Allen paused, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Excuse me?" he asked, his tone curious.

"No." Lavi grinned at him, but his one narrowed eye betrayed the serious intent of the eighteen-year-old. "I would never stay in a band, you geek."

"But," the younger teenager replied slowly. "I was under the impression—"

"Yeah, well, you were wrong." The redhead snorted in amusement. "Being in a band isn't a career, baby." The tone of his voice, the lilted baritone with a light—barely perceptible—drawl, was a little too serious for Allen's taste. "Most of the time, you could make more money making milkshakes at the old twenty-cent malt shop, and that's just not doing it for me. I love this band, I adore it, but I just can't do it."

"So, you got a job because you don't get paid?"

Lavi nodded. "Damn straight. I'm not getting paid just beating the beat, so I have to feel the heat." He sighed. "Success, that's a dream, Brit. All those big time bands you see now? Well, in a couple of years, we'll barely remember them, and that's how the world goes. Do I sound cruel?"

Allen tapped his head in thought. "Yes. Uh, yes, slightly so."

"Well, then I'm getting my point across." He leaned closer to the white-haired teenager. "It was fun while I was in high school," he admitted. "I thought I could do something with music, maybe be famous. That would've been rad, and it still makes me smile to think about it." He sniffed, offended. "To think about how much of a fucking _dumbass_ I was back then. Jesus Christ, what the hell was wrong with me?"

"Lavi…" Allen was prepared to tell him to calm down, because he was looking actually annoyed with himself. Maybe it was a little hypocritical of him, but he wasn't sure if he liked hanging around in the presence of this cynical, realist shell of his good friend. "I'm—"

"All in all," Lavi said, holding up a hand. "Being in a band is being in a gamble. You win, you lose, no one's gonna help you, because that's the way this world rolls. And, well, I just can't be part of that equation. I gave up math when I graduated Hampton." Stopping his sort-of rant, he smiled amiably. "C'mon, let's get you a Coke, you're looking freaked."

Gloved fingers touched his frowning lips, finding the expression kind of hurt after doing it for more than two minutes. How does Kanda pull it off for nineteen _years_? "I am looking rather, err, _freaked_," He rolled his eyes none-too-subtly at the slang. "Aren't I?"

"You sure are. You hungry?" Lavi ran his hand flatly down the younger teen's stomach, and he tickled the skin through the boy's thin black Ocean Pacific shirt. "You're hungry, aren't ya?" he cooed, laughing as Allen yelped in surprise. "Yes you are!"

"Lavi!" The younger teenager smacked the redhead's hands away, a red line of blush sticking out on his cheeks. "My word, you have _no_ restraints!"

"Yeah!" Lavi chuckled good-naturedly, pushing Allen along towards the door leading into the house. "I don't know why, maybe it's the fact that you're so awesome. I can't restrain myself and I get amped around you, 'cause you're, like, totally _ace_."

"I'm sorry to say this, but please just _shut up_." Allen rolled his eyes. "I can't exactly take you seriously anymore."

"Well, then we have a problem here, since there no tellin' when I might want to be taken seriously or not on Tuesday."

"That's tomorrow."

"Congratulations!"

Kanda and Lenalee were already standing around the phone, the former with his arms crossed irritably. "If you hosers are done _mashing_," he snapped, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disdain. "We can make this fucking phone call."

Allen snorted, gently nudging Lavi's hand off of his shoulder. "You could've called yourself, _Kanda_," he replied mockingly. "But, I can understand why not. After all, that's a right jumble of numbers on the board. You can't count that high, can you?"

Lavi leaned close to his ear. "You know you're gonna die now, right?"

"Of course not." The white-haired teen waved a hand in dismissal. "If he were to try, he'd only fail. He has a very limited thought of success." Okay, maybe he was having a little too much fun with this, since that flush on Kanda's cheeks was _not_ looking healthy. "Hmm. Actually, I think I will die soon."

"Yeah," Kanda narrowed his eyes. "Come a little closer, burnout."

"Yes, well, no thanks. I rather like having my life as it is right now."

Lavi shook his head. "_Dead_," he whispered in a voice that sounded almost like singing, with a smile bright on his lips.

Allen wasn't sure what to think of his switch in personality, especially in the case of the conversation that occurred only minutes ago.

"What_ever_," Lenalee huffed, rolling her eyes. "You guys are such…_boys_. Allen! Come here, yeah?"

For Lenalee, yes. He could walk closer to the two, but only if she stayed in the middle. He stepped up to the Chinese girl, his smile on his face. "Yes?"

She looked him over, a frown on her pretty face. "Whoa," she whistled, looking into his eyes. "We're the same height now!" The singer patted his hair, marveling at the realization. "When'd you grow?"

"That's what I want to know," Kanda muttered, looking him up and down as well. "I don't see the difference." He walked around Lenalee, stepping up to Allen. The younger boy glared up at him, annoyed. "He's still a short little kid anyway."

"Hmph," Allen huffed, turning away from the older teenager. He smiled bashfully at Lenalee. "Thank you," he said.

"Not a problem." Lenalee picked up the thin paper card, waving it in his face. "So, yeah, I'm gonna need you to call Mr. Chan."

"What?" His eyebrows flew up in surprise. "But, that's usually what you do—"

"And this time, you can do it. You sound the smartest with your accent, and we can't afford to make any stupid mistakes." She waved the card again. "C'mon…for the _band_?"

"But…what about Kanda?" Wait, the Japanese teenager didn't sound very intelligent at all. That was really quite the stupid suggestion.

"What? No! Kanda sounds like an idiot over the phone. No offense!" She patted the older teenager on the cheeks, smiling.

Kanda waved her hands out the way, sniffing in offense. "Yeah, none taken."

"Lavi was the valedictorian!" Allen insisted, still trying to get out of the situation. "He's bound to sound more intelligent than me!"

"Uh, no." Lenalee looked at Lavi, who rolled a wrapped lollipop over his tongue in boredom. "He still sounds bogus on the phone. But, you don't! So, c'mon just do it!"

"Err…" She placed the card in his hand, and he sighed. "Right. Whatever. I'll do it."

"Like you had a choice, dickweed."

"Shut _up_, Kanda!" Picking up the headset of the phone, he placed it between his shoulder and ear, and he dialed the number slowly. He straightened up as it rang, and he looked at the other band members. "I kind of hate you all," he mouthed.

"Love you, baby!" Lavi whispered back, holding up a thumb in encouragement.

"Urgh." Oh, for the Lord's sake, someone _had_ to answer the line. "Hello?" he greeted nervously, the situation getting to him. He coughed lowly in his throat. "Ah, I'm Allen Walker, the synthesist for a band, _Black Order_." The woman on the other line, the secretary he assumed, shot off a very detailed excuse, and he rolled his eyes. "No, no, we were advised by a Mister, ah, _Bak Chan_. Does that name sound familiar?"

Lenalee leaned closer into his personal bubble. "What's she saying?" she asked excitedly.

Allen held up a hand for silence. "Yes, I met him personally at the movies," he explained, trying very hard to mask his annoyance. "He gave me his card, because apparently he has seen our shows or heard our music, and has deemed us _good enough to call_. So, now we are calling." He ran his gloved fingers through his lengthy white hair. That haircut was sounding better everyday. He should ask Cross for the money to get one. "Mm hmm, of course."

The British teenager looked at the other members of the band. "Is anyone not free, next, ah," he turned back to the phone. "What day was it? The _twenty-eighth_?" He covered the mouthpiece. "Is anyone not free next Friday?"

"I'm good." Lenalee answered, grinning.

Lavi gave him a look. "Yeah, I'll be available."

"Whatever." Kanda shrugged.

Allen uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yes, we'll be there." He paused. "Thanks to you as well. Cheers!" He hung up the phone quickly, before more words could be exchanged. He smiled. "Well, that went rather well."

----

June 28th, 1985.

"So, yeah, this new job of mine is _kickass_!" Lavi said excitedly, his back to the back of the driver's seat in Kanda's van and his right leg held firmly against the wheel bump. "I get to do awesome shit, like use the Dewey Decimal System when I'm organizing the books, man!"

Kanda snorted, going through the motions of turning the vehicle. "That sounds _so_ fucking boring," he commented, frowning.

Allen rolled his eyes, his own back pressed against the passenger seat. "I think it's a rather charming job," he replied, huffing. "After, it's not like you even have one."

"Hey. I _have_ a job, dickweed." The Japanese teenager looked offended at the mere thought that he didn't work. "I live in a fucking _apartment,_ dumbass. I need to pay the rent and buy shit, idiot."

"Where do you work, then?"

"It's a night job." Kanda scowled. "I don't have to tell you."

"Then, it sounds like prostitution." Allen shrugged. "You're a bloody tart, I should've known."

"Ouch," Lenalee said from her place in the passenger's seat. "That one had to hurt." She pretended to hold a microphone in front of the nineteen-year-old's face. "How do you feel now, Kanda?" she asked in a faux-reporter's voice.

"I feel like crashing this car, that's what. Kids shouldn't bag their elders, it's fucking rude and shit."

"Which is funny," Allen replied with a grin. "Because you simply have _no_ right to talk about _bagging_ or being rude."

Kanda was getting really annoyed with how this kid always had some sort of a point. "I'll crash this car," he threatened. "And I'll make sure you're the only one really injured."

"I'd love to see you try."

"And I'd love you guys to see that bangin' building!" Lavi leaned between the two seats, pointing at a large shining building in Downtown Hampton through the windshield. "I think we found it!"

"The _Branch Records_ building?" Allen looked through the window curiously.

"That's the ticket, baby!"

"Don't call me baby."

"Hey," Kanda started, eyebrows furrowed as he made a left turn towards the parking lot. "Does anyone have a dollar? Because I think they want to charge me for parking."

"I thought you had a _job_."

"Okay? And I obviously don't feel like using my money." The oldest teenager was right, they were charging for parking, and per hour too. "All right, someone needs to volunteer, because I ain't paying. I_ drove_."

Lavi reached into his jean pockets, with difficulty, and pulled out a few greenbacks. "Here's four," he said, shoving the money into his friend's hand. "Make it last, Yuu-boy."

"Don't call me that." Kanda leaned out the open window towards the tollbooth. "Hey," he growled, snapping his fingers at the young Asian attendant. The young man's nametag stated _Sifu_ in bold, black letters. "Err, Simon. How much are we paying?"

Sifu, with slanted black eyes, looked offended. "Uhm, my name is Sifu."

"What_ever_." The Japanese guitarist huffed. "How much are we paying here, to park and shit?"

"Uh, you pay when you leave." The attendant looked rather afraid of the look the man was giving him. "After I give you this, uh, ticket…thing…so you…can…"

"Get to the _point_ dweeb."

"Err," Sifu looked around frantically. "Just, _go_." He pressed a button somewhere in the booth, and the striped bar rose creakily.

Kanda nodded. "Thanks," he said, and he slammed his foot on the gas before the bar was fully raised.

Lenalee blinked. "Dude," she whispered. "You broke off a part of the bar."

"Kickass." The Japanese teen slowly pulled into the first parking space he saw, which had a blue paint design and was _obviously_ for the handicapped.

Allen was confused. "Wait, you really _are_ mentally incapacitated?" he said. "Because, well, I was just being cheeky and a jerk, but I am _so sorry_—"

"I'm not retarded, skeezer." Kanda practically threw the car into park. "I broke my arm last year, and the hospital gave this to me." Lenalee opened the glove compartment and pulled out a blue handicapped sign, handing it to Kanda.

Lavi shook his head. "Actually, he broke his arm five years ago," he explained, smiling bemusedly. "But, he keeps threatening to deck the doctor if he isn't allowed to use it. He got too used to the freedom of parking in spaces for people who actually _need_ them."

"Yeah, well, there are, like, fifty thousand handicapped spaces. They'll find another one." Kanda hopped out the car, pocketing his keys. "Let's get this shit over with."

----

The building outside was impressive, but inside, Allen could hardly keep his eyes open because everything just seemed so _bright_.

"Whoa…" Lenalee whistled, placing her hands on her hips, her bracelets clinking with the movement. "This is…so _legit_! I can't believe it!"

Lavi scratched underneath his bandana. "Damn, I feel a little outta place," he admitted, pulling at his fitted dark blue shirt. "Maybe we should've dressed in suits or some shit like that."

"Hey, keep that language out," Lenalee scolded. "It's so not cool in places like this, Red."

"All right, all right," the redhead held up his hands in surrender. "I'll calm down my speech, fer sure."

Kanda snorted. "I'll say whatever I fuckin' want to."

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure?" he commented with a smirk. "After all, don't you want this too? If so, then you just might want to fix your vocabulary." He walked away from them, going for the front mahogany desk.

The secretary, a young Asian woman with large round glasses and long hair braided back in two pigtails, didn't notice him for a few moments, as she was too busy scribbling on a sheet of paper and answering the phone.

Allen coughed into his fist. "Excuse me," he started calmly.

She glanced up at him and looked down, continuing in her writing.

Then, she paused, looking up at him again.

The girl hung up the phone so fast, Allen's white hair moved wispily from the gust with her hand movements. "Sorry sir!" she apologized, smiling brightly. "I was attempting to take care of some business."

"Not a problem," the fifteen-year-old replied, smiling charmingly. He held out a gloved hand. "I'm Allen Walker, with the band, _Black Order_."

The secretary's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Really? That's really your name?" she said excitedly, but then she stopped herself. "I mean, yes, I remember you. I'm Lou Fa, I was on the phone with you."

"Mm hmm," Allen hummed, looking her over. He snapped his fingers. "Oh! Aren't you the nice young lady that helped me find my dog?"

"You _remember_?" She sounded very happy to hear that. "Yeah, that was me!"

"What a coincidence." The white-haired boy checked his watch, clicking his tongue in disdain. He looked back at his friends. "Does anyone have the time? My watch just broke."

Lavi checked his own wristwatch. "It's, what, three? Yeah, three."

"Three forty-nine, dipsh—" Kanda trailed off in a strangled voice, trying to stop himself. "Sh-shop. Dip_shop_."

Allen winked at him with a smile for encouragement. "I believe we came on time," he said, turning back to Lou Fa. "So, now what?"

Lou Fa reached into a cabinet in the desk and pulled out a white sheet. She slid the paper in front of him. "Well, just sign here, and," the secretary pointed at a certain section on the form. "Put your number here. Area code too."

"But, it says _Social Security_—"

"That's a bogus typo."

Allen blinked, and he scribbled the required information into the appropriate boxes. "Well, I don't have an SS number anyway," he muttered, writing his phone number down in his swooping handwriting. "I'm practically an immigrant. From a better country, but still."

Kanda smacked his forehead. "You're a dumbas…prin_." _He coughed. "I think I have a headache."

"You're serious, aren't you, Yuu?" Lavi commented, looking like he wanted to laugh. "You're seriously serious."

"Shut the _heck_ up."

"Aww," Lenalee cooed, poking his cheek. "Andy's trying to censor himself."

"Great job, Kanda!" Allen said with a smile. "You're doing great." He checked the slip of paper in his hands. "We're going to the thirty-fifth floor. Does anyone want to go home?"

"Then they're taking the _friggin'_ bus," Kanda muttered, snatching the slip from him. "Because I'm not taking anyone back before this is over."

Allen shrugged. "Then, that's that." He followed the nineteen-year-old towards the elevator. "Let's go."

----

Bak Chan, CEO extraordinaire, was sitting in his chair, looking rather relaxed when they walked in.

Then, he saw Lenalee.

A light layer of bumps began to show on his face.

"Urgh!" he groaned lowly, hitting his forehead and dragging the hand down. "I, uh, I sort of forgot you were all coming."

Lenalee cocked an eyebrow. "That's, uh, really professional," she commented sarcastically.

Bak peeked through his spread fingers. "Really?" he asked. Then, he hid his face once more. "Ugh, you were being so sarcastic."

"Yes. But, it's cool!" She grinned, looking around the spacy, inverted office. "Your office is mega-cool."

The way Bak looked around confusedly made it obvious to Allen that he never truly thought so himself. "Thanks," he replied with a small smile. "I love it."

"Why are we standing here, making wannabe convos?" Kanda snapped suddenly, rubbing his temples as though he were trying to ward off a headache. "We came here for a _reason_, god—darn—it."

This censorship attempt was really getting too funny.

Allen made a note to think of situations where he'd be forced to do it again.

"Oh!" Bak, still covering his face, waved his free hand towards the door. "You guys have to go. We can reschedule another day, but today just isn't it."

"But—"

"Yes, I _know_." The blond man sighed. "But, there's someone coming in a few minutes, and you just _don't_ want to meet her. You'll die, and I'm talking in the warped way."

Lavi nodded. "Hey, well, I don't want to die," he said happily. "So, yeah. Let's go!"

He walked towards the door, reaching for the doorknob.

The door slammed door, knocking into his wrist. He jumped back as he hissed in pain, rubbing his wrist.

"The fuck?" a young girl snapped, holding the door open with an offended expression. She flipped her light orange bangs out the way of her brown eyes. "Who the fuck is _this_ cracker?"

Lavi's one eye widened, and he stopped blowing at his wrist. "You're, like, uh," he spoke weakly, afraid of this little girl who didn't look more than twelve. "You're as white as I am?" he said in a near-squeak, walking backwards as she stepped forward.

"White? _Me_? Ha!" the girl barked a laugh. "I'm Chinese, dipshit." Kanda looked offended at her free use of the profane language, and Lenalee looked surprised at her unexpected heritage.

"No, Fou," Bak corrected. "You're of Chinese _descent_. You're American, if you wanna get all serious and stuff."

"Man, shut the fuck up!" Fou flipped him off, scowling. "You don't know me!"

"I know you're from Los Angeles," the blond producer retorted calmly. "And that you love harassing me for a living."

The brown-eyed girl huffed, crossing her arms. "What_ever_," she snapped. She leveled a look at the band members. "Who the hell are _these_ yuppies?"

"These…_yuppies_…are the band, _Black Order_, that I told you I'd be seeing today." Bak rolled his eyes. "Once again, you completely ignore what I say."

"Duh, because I don't give a fuck." She sniffed, insulted. "So. Aren't you going to introduce me?"

Bak sighed. "Guys, this is Fou," he said tiredly, waving a hand at the girl, still covering his face. "She's a rap artist."

"Whoa, _what_?" Lavi demanded. "_This_ is Fou, the no-shit trash-talkin' _Straight-Outta-Cali_ lady rapper?"

The girl puffed up in pride, grinning. "The one and only."

"Holy _shit_. I thought you'd be a little older." The redhead laughed lightly. "Shit, what are you, twelve?"

The smile slipped off Fou's face immediately. "Twelve?" she growled, uncrossing her arms. "I'm fucking _twenty-three_, skeezer!"

"Damn," Kanda whispered, leaning closer to Allen. "She's later with puberty than _you_ are."

"Shut the fuck up, Jap!"

"Whoa," the guitarist retorted, glaring at her. "If I can't say cursing shit like that, then why the fuck can you?"

"Why the fuck is your hair so long?" she snapped back. "Christ, I came in here, and I first thought there were three girls and a wimp."

"Wimp?" Lavi looked insulted.

Lenalee shook her head. "The way you jumped back, I'd have to say the same thing," she replied.

Allen rolled his eyes. "You know, one day someone's going to find a better insult than just calling me a girl," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "And when that day comes, I'll be happy."

Fou looked at him. "Yeah, well, you _look_ like—" she paused, cocking an eyebrow at his long-sleeved shirt. "Why the fuck are you wearing a long-sleeve shirt? Do you know it's June and it's fucking _hot_ out there?"

"Well, apparently I'm not nearly as hot as you think." He waved a hand dismissively. "Don't ask me why, I haven't the slightest idea."

"Man, shut _up_." Fou cracked her knuckles, a cruel smile on her face. "You look mega-weak, kid." She hauled out and threw a punch at his face, and grinned when it actually landed. "Yeah!"

"_Ow!_" Allen stumbled back into Kanda, holding his red cheek in offense. "What the bloody _hell_—" he snapped, eyebrows raised. "What the _hell_ was that for?!" He couldn't even say 'bloody', he was so outraged.

Kanda shoved him off, scowling. "What the hell?" he demanded, looking at Bak. "She can do all the shit _I_ can't! Goddammit, I've wanted to punch him _forever_!"

"Why, thank you, Kanda," the British teenager commented blandly, turning back to Fou. "Now, really, what was that for?"

"You looked like you had no fight, so I had to see if I was right." The woman grinned. "Like always, I'm so correct. Get your reflexes checked, punk. This isn't Duran Duran, it's not a fucking lonely child."

Lenalee reached into her purse, rummaging excitedly. "Hey, Miss Fou," she called out, pulling out a pen and a small colorful notebook. "Can I get your autograph? _Please_?"

Fou looked her over, taking the notepad and the pen. "Yeah, sure, whatever," she mumbled, flipping towards an empty page. She stopped, cocking an eyebrow. "You got _Tyki Mikk_'s autograph? That's some shit, kid."

"I know. I had to punch him in the stomach." Lenalee sighed at the memory.

Allen coughed lowly, trying to not remember that time in his life at all.

"Ha!" the female rapper laughed delightedly. "That's fuckin' A. Here, call me, and I'm not talking flaming here—you're cool, Miss, uh…" She furrowed her eyebrows.

"Lenalee Lee," the girl finished, smiling. "I think you're tubular too."

"Yeah!" Fou handed her back the notepad. "Tubular, that's the word."

Bak huffed, still covering his face. "Please, Fou, get out. I really do have better things to do than entertain you—"

The woman cackled. "Whoa, is this the _same_ Lenalee that you've—"

"Get _out!_" the blond man snapped, pointing out and showing his face.

Lenalee grimaced. "That's a bad case of acne there," she commented.

"What? Oh no!" Bak plopped back in his chair, pivoting around so the back of the seat was to the small congregation. "Sorry guys, you're gonna have to come back another day!" he said apologetically, waving a hand at them.

Fou rolled her eyes. "Get _over_ yourself," she said loudly. "You're such a pussy, you'll never ask her out!"

A small groan was her only answer.

"Bump this!" She stomped out the room, slamming the door angrily.

The drummer of the band blinked slowly, rubbing his wrist. "What was _that_ about?"

"You probably wouldn't understand," Allen replied, shaking his head. He rubbed his own still red cheek. "So, can we leave now? This really does ache like something I cannot say!"

Lenalee ruffled his hair. "Sure. Kanda! Let's go?"

The Japanese teenager huffed. "Can I punch him in the face?" he asked slowly.

"Uh. _No_."

"Then, damn this."

* * *

During Conair Week too? Man, I know I promised Emi it'd be out soon, but I was hoping Christmas. Well, maybe that would've been a totally bogus deadline, and why am I listening to Vanilla Sky and Weird Al when I was _supposed_ to be listening to Yes?

Well, I suppose Weird Al is also good, because he was popular during the 80s too. Didn't you know? :D

Fou the rapper is what Emi and I have been waiting for _forever_. Seriously, this is some srs business. (You can guess on what Lavi's job is. We didn't really think it out quite yet, so anything is possible.)

Oh, here's something to help with one of the references. Duran Duran, a super popular New Wave group of the 80s, had a hit single called _The Reflex_. When Fou is talking to Allen about how he sucks with his reflexes and should try to fix them, she's pointing at a lyric, which states "_The reflex is a lonely child_" because that line rocks. It's just waiting in the park, man. :D

Hey, I've got some more FUCKING AWESOME NEWS.

Emiggax got a _puppy_ for Christmas. Her name is Crunch (I'm totally nicknaming her Cap'n) and she looks like Timcanpy, just with a black muzzle. I'm going to see her on New Years, and maybe I'll get pictures. But, Henly the BITCH CAT BITCH tried Crunch, and I think I'm going to have to smack a bitch. D:

Here's a confession: I love knowing what you all think is going to happen. I've gotten some pretty lulzy endings (lol Freakingcage7) and some scarily accurate ones (Joce, are you onto us? XD), so I have fun writing things that might throw a wrench in your assumptions. :D That's why Lavi was being such a cynical jerk, because _canon says so_ lol.

All right everybody, have a Merry Christmas and (if this isn't updated by that time) a Happy New Year. :D


	23. Mickey

_TWENTY-THREE_

June 25th, 1985.

"Battle of the bands," Lenalee excitedly started, pointing at a small box in the _Hampton Roads_ newspaper, entertainment section. "We've got to be there."

The three other band members, who sat together on the gray couch with Allen in the middle, just stared at her like she were some sort of special idiot.

Well. She smiled, flipping her bangs out the way of her eyes. She _was_ special, in the awesome way.

But, she doubted they meant it in that way. "I'm not retarded," she said aloud, glaring at the trio.

Lavi held up his hands in surrender. "Never said you were," he replied with a grin. Although Allen pulled at his shirt collar, looking guilty, and Kanda coughed into his fist nervously.

"I'm _not_ retarded," Lenalee repeated, annoyed. "Dudes, it's the 1985 edition _Battle of the Bands_ hosted by none other than," This is where she sighed dreamily. "_Sherman Camelot_."

"Oh my god, Sherman Camelot," Lavi said in a monotone deadpan. "He's so fucking sexy, but he's like creepy by one hundred times more."

"Is he?" Allen asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I was thinking along the lines of moreover a thousand times more. His eyes rather disturb me. And his smile. And, really, his general existence."

"I heard he was that creep's dad," Kanda added in, crossing his arms in the motions of a wise man. "You know… that Mexican guy who's deadset on your ass."

"Um." Allen rolled his eyes. "If you mean Tyki Mikk," and he probably did, because there was only _one_ guy so 'deadset on his ass'. "Then, he's Portuguese. And he's not _that_ deadset on my arse."

Kanda nodded. "It's so funny because I don't care about your ass or your creep."

"What was the point of mentioning how you don't care about my arse?" the British teenager retorted, grinning as though he won the argument. "Really, you could've lived your life just perfectly without mentioning my backside."

"I also could've lived my life just fine without your _existence_, hoser."

Lenalee sighed with an overzealous roll of her eyes. "You guys are, like." She paused to search for a fitting adjective, one that would manage to piss off Kanda and make Allen scowl. "Ultra gay." Good enough.

Kanda glared. "What the fuck. No we're not." He looked like the suggestion was really getting to him though, and that's all that mattered in the Chinese girl's opinion. Her opinion mattered the most anyway, since she was the front man—okay, woman—for this ace band.

Oh. Speaking of this band, "Okay guys, seriously. The _Battle of the Bands_, Sherman Camelot, ultimate sexy, lots of fame, make some money." She narrowed her eyes in determination. "We've got to get in this, I mean for sure."

Lavi perked up, as well as Allen in a less-obvious way. "Money?" repeated the redhead, his one eye wide. "Well, now you're talkin', Lenalady! What's the dealio, yo?"

"Got your attention. _Awesome_." Lenalee pointed at the small box again, as though they could actually see it. "There's a prize, duh. Like, five grand for first place, two and a half for second, and one for third. Everyone else gets awesome T-shirts and gift certificates to some K-RAD stuff."

"I do like a good shirt," Allen said idly, poking at his collar-shirted stomach. He smiled up at the singer. "I'm in."

The redhead chuckled in a good nature. "Dude," he replied, ruffling the younger teenager's hair playfully. "No. Only the bogus bands get the T-shirts. The fucking _excellent_ bands, like us, get the money."

"Mm hmm…" the white-haired teenager hummed in response, tapping his chin in thought. "But, how far does this event reach?" He waved a gloved hand around for emphasis. "For instance, is it just in Virginia…or is it all around the North American continent?"

Lenalee looked at the newspaper once more. "…Well…" she murmured, smiling. "It's just all of America, but that's okay!"

"What the _fuck_ do you mean that's okay?" Kanda demanded, an eyebrow cocked. "Then, it's just us, three teenagers and the brat, versus the fucking _world_."

"Whoa." Lavi rubbed his chin. "That _sounds_ hardcore. Beating the world would be, like, ultra-fucking-difficult." He shot his hand in the air, waving it excitedly. "Count me in, too, Missus Lee!"

"All right!" the Chinese girl exclaimed happily. She eyed Kanda, who looked away stubbornly. "C'_mon_ Kanda," she whined, pouting. "You're the oldest! Your opinion matters even more than _me_ at times!"

"Oh, yes, keep lying to him," Allen commented with a smile. "It boosts his already sizeable ego, but he won't learn anything from it."

The Japanese guitarist scowled. "If I go," he spoke up, looking at the seventeen-year-old. "Can I _kick his ass_?"

"Why are you so caught up on my _arse_—"

"Yeah, sure," Lenalee waved a hand. "He'll be okay."

"Then I'm in." Kanda looked at Allen, cracking his knuckles. _You're dead_, he mouthed silently, smirking.

_Just like your brain_, the British boy mouthed back.

A pen hit Kanda on the forehead before he could choke the living hell out of the brat. "The fuck?" he snapped, rubbing the spot where he was attacked unfairly. "He was talking too!"

"He's _fifteen_, Kanda." Lenalee deadpanned. "You're _twenty-nine_."

"What kind of bogus exaggeration was _that_? I'm, like," and, somewhere in his mind, he knew that the brat was going to mock him because he hesitated to think about his age. "Nineteen."

Allen sighed. "Look at what you did, Lenalee!" he said in a scolding tone, crossing his arms. "You made the poor boy strain the imaginary mind he _did_ have. Now, he probably thinks we're in Kansas!"

"Can I kill him?" Kanda demanded, pointing at the boy's face. "_Please_." That should totally give him the right to murder the punk—he _never_ said please.

"Okay, you two need to get a room," Lavi said, rolling his eye. "Christ, I'm chokin' over here from the flames!"

Kanda stared at him for a moment. "Dude, you're, like, _zillions_ gayer than me," he retorted. "I bet you think of the punk while you jac—"

"Boys!" Lenalee snapped, tapping her foot on the ground impatiently. "I _don't_ need to hear that! That's so…ugh!" She shook her head. "Do you want to hear about _my_ personal problems, like my _period_?"

"Uh." Lavi looked disgusted, his lollipop almost falling out of his mouth. "_No_."

Allen smacked his forehead. "You just ruined my dinner," he muttered. "And I haven't even _thought_ about that."

Kanda scratched behind his neck, scowling. "I can speak for all of us when I say your…_whatever_…is your own goddamn business." He shuddered. "We don't _need_ to know about it."

"Then I don't need to know about you guys jacking off," Lenalee retorted, crossing her arms. "Have we come to an agreement, guys?"

"Yes. Most _definitely_ yes." The British boy answered, holding a hand to his stomach as a queasy look came over his expression. "Can we not even _think_ about this anymore?"

"So, instead of talking about body functions—" It was awesome because she never thought she'd get the chance to use that term outside of school. "—you guys want to get _serious_ and talk about this chance of a lifetime?"

Lavi raised his hand. "Yeah, uh, Lenalady. Chance of a lifetime? Che'nah. It comes every year."

"Dude, _shut up_." Lenalee read over the paper. "Okay. Great thing Kanda agreed to come along!"

The nineteen-year-old narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Because it _kind_ of takes place in _Georgia_?" She smiled.

"What the _fuck—_no." He shook his head. "I ain't doing it."

"But—"

"That's a lot of fuckin' gas, Lenalee," Kanda cut her off, leaning forward with a serious face. "And a lot of planning. Virginia to Georgia? That's, like, _nine_ hours of driving. Did you know Cyclops has ADD?"

"Dude, I totally _don't_." Lavi sniffed in offense, tipping his nose. "Dweeb."

"Besides, there's a lot of _money_ involved in that," the Japanese teenager continued, holding out a calloused hand. He ticked off a list. "There's _gas_, _food_, _boarding_, _entertainment_—you kids already know you get bored easily—and all that kind of shit. Not only that, but _I've_ got work, Cyclops has work, and the brat has to be in bed by nine." He cocked an eyebrow, leaning back. "Think about it, Lenalee."

Allen kicked his leg subtly. He was obviously offended at the bedtime comment, which made Kanda smirk.

He shoved the boy back.

"That's why I asked _you_," Lenalee replied, grinning. "You're mega smart about the real world—you always know how things go down." Then, she frowned. "Okay, seriously, can you _not_ touch Al for, like, _ten minutes_?"

"His record is actually nine point two," Allen replied, shoving Kanda in retribution.

"I'm surrounded by fags," the Chinese girl groaned, smacking her forehead. "_Anyway_," she started, rolling her eyes. "Kanda has awesome points all the time—Allen, seriously, _shut up_."

The white-haired boy shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth.

"So, that's why we have at least a _month_ to plan this out." Lenalee straightened out the paper, checking the small box one more time. "Okay, maybe three. But, we've got two weeks to decide on whether or not we're actually _going_."

"Um. _Why_?" Allen asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Because, the deadline for _signing up_ is July 12th." She folded the newspaper, tucking it underneath her arm. "So, until then, let's go on getting our music in order." The female singer snapped her fingers in sudden remembrance. "Totally off the topic, but I talked to Miss Anita!"

"Is she still sexy?" Lavi demanded. "Because I've gone hunting but I've never seen a fox like her."

"Dude, _no_." Kanda muttered, looking disturbed. "She was, like, thirty in the _seventies_."

"And? She's probably still in her thirties _now_. Now, when we get to the 1990s, _then_ I might stop and think about it." The redhead shrugged. "Time goes, buddy. Time goes."

"Um. Okay, whatev'." Lenalee tapped her chin. "She's kind of in the hospital. Did you guys know she was totally ill? And in the _bad_ way?"

"I came to a guess," Allen admitted. "After all, I was surprised she still had a lung after all that coughing on, uh, _that day_."

"What, the day where you got molested by Tyki Mikk?" Lavi asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Uh. Yes." That was a crude way of saying it, but it was totally true.

The older teenager nodded. "She _was_ coughing a whole lot," he mused aloud, rubbing his clean chin. "Man, that totally sucks. How's Missus Miranda holdin' up?"

"Well, she's doing okay. I think we should visit her, though. Just in case."

"She was the one who stuck me with that godforsaken nickname," Kanda said, frowning. "I _hate_ it. Why would I want to see her?"

"Because she's _dying_, ickle Andy," Allen replied, annoyed at even the thought of someone not wanting to visit another in a hospital. "Show her some support, twat. She helped us more than you would _ever_ know."

"Hmm…" the long-haired guitarist hummed, looking forward in thought. "She did help us a lot, didn't she?"

"_Yeah_." At that, Allen's stomach rumbled lowly, and he grinned. "I'm sorry, this conversation lasted too long," he said, standing up with a slight groan. "I've gotten terribly hungry." He stretched his limbs, huffing. "I've got to eat, or I'll explode."

Lenalee blinked. "What?"

"Did I say explode? I so meant die."

Lavi stood up himself, cracking his back. The other three members of the band looked disgusted at the sound. "Grody," Kanda said, scooting away further on the couch. "Uncool."

"What_ever_." The redhead smiled at Allen. "Hey, let me come along, would'ja? I'm pretty starving myself!"

"Of course." Allen walked towards the garage door, brushing off the back of his jeans. "Bloody _fleas_," he muttered in disgust.

Lavi looked back at Kanda, grinning. "_Hoser_," he whispered, making a mocking face using his fingers. "I think he was talking about your face!" He followed after the fifteen-year-old, hopping up the stairs.

Lenalee stared after him for a moment, blinking. "Uh, what did he mean?" she asked Kanda, who crossed his legs in nonchalance.

"Nothing," the older teenager snapped, rubbing his nose in annoyance. "He's just being a dickweed."

"Kanda. _Everyone_ is a dickweed to you."

"Then it isn't anything new, is it?"

----

July 1st, 1985.

"Fuck," Lavi cursed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Is it, like, a hundred degrees in here, or is it just because I'm standing next to you?"

"Don't worry," Allen replied, pulling at his shirt collar and huffing lightly. "It's a hundred degrees. _Celsius_."

The two teenagers stood next to each other, sifting through the cassettes in the record shop a few blocks away from the high school. Subtly, the gray-eyed teenager fanned his face with his hands, because the place was stuffy and it was bloody _hot_ outside.

He had to find a distraction. "Oh," he murmured, grinning. "_The_ _Beach Boys_!"

"Beach Boys?" Lavi peeked over, his expression critical. "Does it have _Good Vibrations_?"

Allen looked on the B-side of the cassette, running a gloved finger over the small print. "No, but it has _California Girls_," he replied, flipping it over. He squinted. "And _The Little Girl That I Once Knew_."

"If it isn't _Good Vibrations_, then it sucks," Lavi said dismissively, shaking his head. "Just, put it back. You'd totally regret it if you buy it, only to hear Brian pelt out—" He raised his voice to a scratchy tenor and proceeded to sing the lyrics of the mentioned song. "—_oooh the little girl that I once kneeew_!"

The white-haired boy laughed, covering his mouth. "Lavi," he said. "I'm going to have to ask you to put that away."

"What? My awesome K-RAD totalriffic sexy? Because that's kind of impossible."

"_No_," Allen rolled his eyes. "That…_thing_ you call a singing voice."

"Whoa, you _and_ Yuu think I can't sing—"

The younger teenager cut him off smoothly, grinning. "No, really, for one, I consider myself pretty smart, and secondly, I think I _know_ you're lacking the necessary…requirements of an actually good singer. For instance, the ability to _sing_."

"Zing!" Lavi cried, stumbling backwards. "Right in the heart! Oh, it hurts! Oh, it _burns_!" He fell to his knees, grabbing Allen's legs. "Baby, I thought you _loved_ me!"

Allen tried to kick him off, but almost fell himself. "I believe Tina Turner said it best," he replied in amusement, tapping his foot. "What's _love_ got to do with it?"

"Dude, I totally love that song." The redhead got up from the ground, breathing a little heavily. "Shit, I'm not made for so much movement in so much heat." He paused. "Unless it's with you, because hot _damn_ I can catch on to—"

"Cor _Blimey_, look, it's _Johnny Tillotson_!" Allen suddenly announced, pulling out the cassette for it. "And it's got my favorite song: _Poetry in Motion_."

"Why the hell are we in the oldies section?" Lavi asked, cocking an eyebrow as he scanned over all the titles of the cassettes on the shelves. "Seriously, _Mannfred Man_, _Jan and Dean_, the fucking _Human Beinz_! God, it feels like I'm teleporting through time or something." He took the cassette from the boy's hands and put it back, shaking his head. "Get with the _times_, Brit. Listen to more modern shit, like, uh," he looked at a random poster on the glassy windows. "_Electric Light Orchestra_!"

"…" Allen cocked an eyebrow, crossing his arms skeptically. "Didn't they come out in the early seventies?"

"Aren't you four feet tall?" the redhead retorted, grinning. "Yeah, thought so. So, come on, let's go listen to Queen or something."

"…Didn't _they_ come out in the seventies?"

"Do you want a piggy-back ride?" Lavi demanded, hands on his hips. He straightened his shoulders with a huff. "I was totally going to give you a piggy-back ride for the choice price of less than free. But, now you're bitchin', and you're going against my eternal rightness."

Less than free? That sounded utterly suspicious. "And what _position_ would I be in?" Allen replied, rolling his eyes.

Lavi waved a hand in dismissal. "What position _wouldn't_ you be in? For serious, dude."

At this point, the white-haired teenager simply walked away, because there were not always words for Lavi. He was a bloody paragraph by himself anyway.

"Aww, that was bogus." The one-eyed drummer followed him, thumbs tucked in his jean pockets. "C'mon, baby, don't break my heart so _harshly_. Give me a little more, uh, _chance_, can you relate?"

Allen picked up a _Village People_ cassette case. "Don't call me _baby_," he muttered automatically.

"Same story, same line. Turn the _page…_whoa…" Lavi made an abrupt turn into a further aisle, blinking in confusion. "These…these are crucial! Al, baby, check this out!"

"Check what out?"

"_These_!" The eighteen-year-old held up a square plastic case victoriously. "This is so _trippy_!"

Allen looked at the case for a long while. "Lavi," he started slowly, tapping his chin. "It's clear you haven't caught up with the times _yourself_, but, that is a CD. Compact Disc."

"Compact Disc? Awesome." Lavi tossed the case in the air, catching it between his palms as it came down. "So, uh, what's it do, exactly?" His tone was hopeful, as though it shot laser beams and defeated aliens.

"According to the newspaper," the British boy replied, furrowing his eyebrows. "It plays music."

"Music?"

"Music."

"…" Lavi eyed the CD case in his hands for a moment with very vague disappointment. "How _much_ music can it play?"

"Um. A lot? I'd suppose, as I don't even know how you're supposed to play the bloody things." Allen reached over and tugged at the case, making Lavi let go. "Thank you." He flipped the case over, finding the plastic too thick for him to make out the words, and the CD cover too vague to find out the band. "Maybe, you use a really small gramophone record player?"

The redhead hummed in thought. "I'm gonna go mess with Tapp. He'd know how to make this thing play." He walked off, whistling a popular pop song underneath his breath.

"Mm hmm…" the British boy replied distractedly, finding out how to actually _open_ the thing. Pulling the sides apart, he peered at the silver disc held within the depression of the thick plastic. There was black text on the disc, but he couldn't read it because it was so small. He held the CD close to his face. "_Noo—_" he sounded out, furrowing his eyebrows. For some reason, he felt like an idiot. "—_aahh_sss_ aark_. _Noah's Ark._" He blinked. "_Noah's Ark_!"

Allen was as sure as Cross is a drunken bastard that he was once the god of situational irony in a past life.

And, Cross did have a track record of drunken bastardry, in his knowledge.

Allen pulled at his collar again, frowning at the stuffy heat. "Hmm," he huffed, looking at the CD in his hands. "Should I _buy_ it, or should I—"

"Al!" Lavi called, waving his hand. "Let's go! It's getting too hot, and Tapp's being a dickweed!"

"'Ey," Tapp replied, looking oddly offended. "I was just _sayin'_, you can't play those CDs on a record player!"

"See? He's being a fucking jerk! Record players play _everything_, don't they, Al?"

Allen ignored him passionately, on that note.

"Not even Walkmans," the large record-store manager continued, and he held up a hand. "You cain't use 'em on coffee tables, no eatin' 'em, cain't put 'em in water. You need a true-blue CD player, Lavi, made by Sony."

Lavi rolled his eye. "_Sure_ I do." He looked over in Allen's direction. "Brit? What's taking you so long?"

Allen, in a moment of insanity—as that was the only word good enough for his stupidity—and surprise, snapped the CD case closed and stuffed it in his pants atop his flat stomach. "Coming," he replied, trotting up to the older teenager. The cool plastic felt _really_ good against his heated skin, he noted offhandedly.

"Christ, you could've taken another dickyear over there," Lavi teased, ruffling the boy's already messy hair. He blinked, tugging at a lock of the white strands. "Dude…you got a _haircut_?"

"Well, yes." The pale boy patted his own hair, medium-length and stopping just centimeters below his ears. "Do you not like it or something?"

"No, no!" The redhead held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Your hair is kick_ass_. Thing is, you were bitching about it for, like, three months, and I'm surprised I didn't notice it until now."

"Uh _huh_." Allen rolled his eyes. "Are we leaving yet?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." Lavi led the way out the record store. "Bye, Dirty Liar!"

Tapp waved back. "See ya, Lavi!"

The two walked out the door of the record shop, and immediately regretted the decision. If inside was hot, then the actual outdoors were a little piece of Hell.

Allen blinked at the glare of the sun and covered his eyes with a gloved hand. "…blow me…" he breathed, pulling at his suddenly sticky black long-sleeved shirt. Even if he hated exposing that damned arm of his, he just might have to make an exception for today.

"Hoo, Christ," Lavi whistled, eyebrows flying up in surprise. "It feels like the temperature got _hotter_ than it was before." He flashed a large smile at the younger teenager. "How 'bout you go back inside and we'll see if it starts snowing?"

"The saddest thing is," Allen replied, starting down the sidewalk. "I can't be fagged to actually _kill_ you." He smiled. "I'd rather not have your blood on my hands, gloved or no."

A bus rushed by, the metal glare reflected from the sun catching them both off guard. "Dude. I just called you _hot_." The redhead paused, reveling in the gust of wind following. "I didn't know you were this evil. You've made more kinda sorta threats to my life than Yuu!"

"Uh, _no_. Nobody can make a death threat better and more often than Kanda, and that's a universal truth." The fifteen-year-old nodded in agreement with himself, crossing his arms.

Lavi nodded. "I know," he replied. "That's why I said _kinda sorta_. Yuu's more in tune with the in-your-face threats, like grabbing a knife and shoving it in your face, while you'll eye the knife and keep on smiling all creepy-like."

"Yes, well, sometimes you deserve it." Allen looked over at him curiously. "How do you know me so well in such a short span of time?"

"Short? Dude, it's been, like, six months. I think it's totally possible for a relationship at this point."

"Ah." The boy rolled his eyes, wiping his bangs off his moist forehead. "Dear Lord, it's ridiculously _humid_ too."

"Uh _huh_…" Lavi trotted up and stopped in front of Allen, making him stop too. "Brit, boy, you're not lookin' too hot." He paused, snapping his fingers. "Am I awesome or what? Totally just pulled that one outta the air!"

Allen put his hands on his hips and refrained from tapping his foot impatiently. "Other than your…_pun_," he stated, obviously annoyed. "What's up?"

"Yeah, well, you'll probably die by the time we get to your house. Fer serious, Brit. Black long-sleeved shirt, tight pants, hi-top Converse, _gloves_? What the fuck are you _thinking_?"

"I was thinking of fashion." The white-haired teenager admitted with little shame. "At least this way, if I die, I'll look _good_."

"And, hey, yeah, you look _great_." Lavi turned around, catching the familiar gleam of an angry-looking Chevy van in the distance. He smirked, turning back around. "But! We need your mad synth, so yeah."

Allen was suspicious. "What did you see?" he asked cautiously, finding the sun to be a terrible friend at the moment.

"Nothin'!" Lavi replied, and he eagerly turned around. "Okay, get on my back!"

"…" The younger teenager stared at his back. "_Why_?"

"Less-than-free piggyback ride!" The redhead insisted. "C'mon, it'll be fun!"

"Fun? It will be _gay_, Lavi. _Gay_. Do you know what I am not? _Gay_."

Man, he hoped the kid didn't read the _bible_ or some shit like that while lying to himself. "O-_kay_," the green-eyed teenager replied, rolling his eye. "Anyway, this is also for your benefit." He'll have to bring out the _reasoning_. "Brit, it's hot, and you're wearing all the wrong things for this weather. Your house is a few blocks away, yeah, but that's still a fucking walk when it's burning up like this." He ran his fingers through his hair, huffing. The Chevy was getting _closer_! "You keep on walking, you're only gonna wear yourself down because you heat up your body that way—and let's not get on how you ain't got a drop of _water_—"

A pair of arms encircled his neck. "…that made quite a bit of sense," Allen said with a smile. "I'm sold, Lavi. And, besides, maybe a ride on your back might be fun."

"Mm _hmm_, oh yeah." Lavi replied, leering. The British boy tightened his grip on his neck. "Okay, okay! Sorry for that!"

"You unnatural sexual _pervert_," the boy replied, amused.

"That's how all the ladies like it, baby."

Allen hopped up, and the redhead held his legs in place. "Okay!" the eighteen-year-old announced, leaning forward with a determined look on his face. "Let's motor!"

Speaking of motors, the Chevy had finally reached the light on their current street. Lavi started walking, a smile on his face.

"_What's it gonna take—to make a dream survive_?" the radio in the Chevy rumbled loudly, and it was feet away. "_Who's got the touch to calm the storm inside? Who's gonna save you? Alive and kicking!_"

The driver of the Chevy, though, slowed down at the sight of the pair. Lavi grinned and waved a peace sign at the driver.

Kanda's expression was clearly "What the _fu—_" and he bumped into the compact Ford in front of him.

"Watch it!" the driver snapped, honking in offense.

"Fuck you!" the Chevy backed up and, with one last incredulous look at the two, Kanda made a swerve into the turn lane.

Allen had stopped breathing. "Was that Kanda?" he demanded quietly. "Please tell me that wasn't Kanda."

"Oh, it totally was—"

"Because if that was Kanda, I'm going to have to kill you. Please believe me, because I am _quite_ serious."

He sure sounded like it. "—was _not_ him. It was Yuu." Lavi tried in vain to breathe through the tight grip Allen had on his neck. "Or someone else. Ach!"

"My Lord, you have no restraints?"

Lavi huffed, and straightened the surprisingly heavy load on his back. Christ, he _looked_ borderline anorexic, but his weight went against the laws of physics or some shit like that. "Kinda, but in your case," he stopped, eyebrows flying up to his hairline. He must've been insane at this point, because there was something rubbing against his lower back that _shouldn't_ have been there, at least without his direct involvement. "Okay, I'm sorry if I diss you, or something like that, but I've got to say this. Is that a case in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

Allen froze, remembering his obsessive-compulsive kleptomania. _Oh my God_. "It's a CD case," he muttered, a blush creeping up his cheeks. He bit his bottom lip, trying to not spurt out apologies for this incredibly awkward situation. "I kind of filched it."

"Filched it? What the hell does that mean?" the redhead asked, laughter in his voice. "Oh, wait, you _stole_ it? Dude, that's totally juiced!"

"Shut up."

"And then you put it in your _pants_? What kinda thief steals a trippy new invention and then stuffs it in their pants?"

"Shut _up_. I'm not a thief."

Lavi laughed, ducking into the cool shade of a large tree as Allen tried to kick his sides. "Yeah, well, that's not what it looks like, but whatever."

"Hmph," Allen huffed, resting his chin on a shoulder. "Just…keep _walking_, twat."

"As you wish, Masta'."

----

July 4th, 1985.

"Woof!" Timcanpy barked at the bathroom door. "Woof!" His tail thumped on the carpeted floor, and the ringing from the phone was really wearing on his nerves.

"I'm _coming_, Tim," Allen muttered, opening the door. Steam languidly floated out around him, and he ran his fingers through his wet hair. "What's going on, boy?"

The yellow dog almost rolled his golden eyes. "Woof." Using his wet nose, he nudged the boy towards the phone in the hallway, the ringing restarting.

"Tim! Don't put your nose there!" the white-haired teenager yelped, holding his red towel closer to his body. "I'm practically naked!"

Timcanpy gave him a _look_.

"Okay, well, so are you. But still!" Allen answered the phone with a huffy "Hello?" He smiled at the voice on the other line. "Good morning, Lenalee. How are you? …I'm fine." He cocked an eyebrow. "What am I wearing? Uh. A towel? Wait, is Lavi there?" He smacked his forehead, dragging the palm down in a show of exasperation. "My _Lord_. Okay, well, now that you are aware of my current state of undress, I'll just hang u—what? Kanda agreed?" The boy almost dropped the phone, but instead habitually twirled a finger within the curls of the cord. "…I'll say! … Okay, so you want me to meet you _where_? Gosnold's Hope Park? That's a bloody walk from my place, Lenalee. …Yes, I _do_ know how to catch a bus. …I'll see you." He rolled his eyes for a moment. "Yes, Happy Independence Day to you too."

Allen hung up the phone. "Well," he spoke aloud. "I guess we're going to the _Battle of the Bands_."

"Woof." Tim barked, lazily lying at the boy's feet.

The teenager kicked at him playfully. "Get up, you lazy bastard." He huffed, placing his hands on his hips. "Go outside, chase a cat. You're getting rather chubby, you giant."

"Arooo," the dog whined, annoyed.

"I'm not taking you with me." Allen flexed his red, wrinkled arm. "Hmm, I wonder how hot it is outside?"

"Too hot, brat," a grouchy voice snapped from the top of the stairs. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Allen looked up at Cross, lowering his arm slowly. "To the park?"

"You liar. You're going somewhere else." The red-haired man trotted down the stairs, his collared shirt unbuttoned. "You never tell me what you're doing, brat."

Was Allen delusional, or did Cross actually sound put-off by that? "Um." He smiled slightly. "We're going to sign up for the _Battle of the Bands_. The booth is in the park, and everyone else is on their way."

"So, when were you going to ask me to go?" his uncle replied, crossing his arms.

The fifteen-year-old stared at him. "…Never?" he answered honestly. "I mean, I assumed that you'd be _gone_ by now, actually. Like, really just _gone_. I'm rather confused on why you're still here, actually."

"Because my next fucking lecture isn't until December." Cross smirked. "You're stuck with me for a _while_, boy." He leaned against the kitchen archway. "We're gonna get our relationship back in order. I'm gonna be the best father-thing you ever had, brat."

"…" Allen couldn't help it. He laughed, and he laughed _hard_. "Y-you can't b-be b-bloody ser-r-rious!" he gasped, cackling. He bent over, his towel sliding lower on his hips. "Oh _God_, you are _hilarious_."

"I can beat your ass," the man said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disdain. "And, I can do it in fucking _style_, even without my belt. Now, let me get this straight: you and your fag-house are going to a _Battle of the Bands_ concert?"

The white-haired boy had sobered down long enough to nod, a large smile still on his lips.

"And, you need to sign up today?"

He nodded again, finding it hard to look at Cross's face without falling over in laughter again.

"How were you going to get there?"

Why the twenty _questions_? It was like a bad game of M-A-S-H. "The b-bus, sir." Allen replied, biting his bottom lip as the chuckle threatened to sneak out.

"The bus?" Cross huffed, uncrossing his arms. "Get dressed, boy. I'll get you there."

All the urges to laugh just _stopped_ at that point. "Really?" the teenager asked, eyes wide. "You'll take me to the park? _You_'ll take me to the park?"

"What's the one thing I hate the most, brat?" the bespectacled man stated, eyes narrowed.

"Repeating yourself, uncle."

"Then, get with the fucking _program_." He looked at Allen, grimacing. "And get _dressed_. Your boyfriends might get hot at the sight of your underdeveloped body, but I sure as hell don't."

Allen watched him walk away, and he looked down at Timcanpy.

"Kill him for me, would you?"

"Woof."

----

The Turbo screeched into the parking space loudly, swerving like a Dukes of Hazzard _General Lee_ on set.

Allen placed his hand on his chest, praying for his heart to stop attempting _escape_. "T-thank you, uncle?" he gasped, blinking the horror out of his eyes.

Cross nodded, blowing smoke from his cigarette out the window. "Get out," he replied. "I'm gonna guess your sex-buddy, the one with the _van_, is gonna take you back?"

"Kanda and I," Allen started with an irritated tone. "Are not in a sexual relationship. At all!"

"Preach it to the choir, brat." The man shoved the boy. "Now, get the hell out of my car. I need to get drunk."

"Fine!" the British teenager opened the door and got out, slamming it closed when he was standing on the concrete. "Have a great day."

"Slam my door again, and I'll fuck up _yours_." Cross put the car in reverse and sped away backwards, waving once at the teenager.

Allen sighed, rubbing at a temple to ward off a headache.

"Al!" a cry came from the other side of the small brick wall. "You made it!" Lavi hopped over the barrier with ease, and slammed into Allen with a hug. "God, I thought you were, like, _not coming_ or something!"

"No," the white-haired boy gasped, patting the older teenager on the back. "I made it. Somehow."

"Somehow is good enough!" Lavi straightened up, his face sobering. "You will not _believe_ who I saw!"

"Who?"

"Sherman Camelot!" the redhead grinned. "The guy's even creepier in person, I'm tellin' you!"

"I'll have to guess so," Allen rolled up his shirt sleeve, peering down at his watch. "Did I come extra early or something? I don't see anyone."

"What? _Early_?" Lavi blinked, looking at his own watch. "Dude, it's twelve."

"But my watch says—" and he stopped there, because any clock _near_ him had a habit of breaking. "Okay, nevermind. Any way!" Allen looked around Lavi into the grassy expanse of park, cocking an eyebrow. "Are we the only band?"

The redhead snorted. "I _wish_. Lenalee gave us the dealio that a few other bands were here, but we didn't get to see them, really."

"You didn't?" How unfortunate. "Well…then, why are we standing here?"

"Because Kanda is filling out the papers. By the way, do you have a middle name?"

"Um. _No_?"

"All right." Lavi looped his arm with the younger teenager's, pulling him along through the archway of a gate. "Let's go, they need some personal info that we don't have on you."

"Okay?" Allen followed him, rather confused. "Like, what exactly?"

"Any drugs you're not down with," the one-eyed drummer replied, making a turn into a curving trail. "Your hair color, your eye color, your middle name, are you an alcoholic, do you listen to _The Cure_, all that jazz, etcetera and so on."

"Oh." The fifteen-year-old paused. "But, he couldn't answer my _hair color_?"

"They want your real hair color."

"…" Allen looked at him, cocking an eyebrow.

Lavi stared back, stopping. "You _can't_ be serious."

"Okay, maybe it's a little grayer than this," Allen admitted, smiling. "But, this _is_ my real hair color."

"It's not dyed?" The older teenager sounded utterly confused, like he had never even considered the thought of that being his real hair color.

"Not to an extreme degree. It was brown when I was ten, if that makes you feel better." He waved a hand in dismissal at Lavi's perplexed expression. "Trauma."

"Oh. Okay, I guess?" The eighteen-year-old shrugged, continuing on in the walk to the other two members. "Well, we'll just say '_White_' and hope they don't call us out like dirty liars."

Allen rolled his eyes. "I was just trying to explain," he replied.

"Explain what?" a light, melodic voice asked from the side of them. Lenalee grinned. "That your hair is totally trippendicular?"

Trippendicular. Of _every_ expression to show approval, she chose _that one_? "I'd suppose," Allen answered instead, smiling disarmingly. "Um, where's Kanda?"

"Oh, he's ahead. We split up because I wanted to get some water from the water fountain, and he was bullying this kid. It's hilarious, I swear!"

"He bullies _children_ now?"

"Don't act so surprised, he does it to you all the time," Lenalee replied, and then hid a smile. "I'm kidding! No, this kid is, like, ten or nine or something. Kanda's trying to take his football, because the boy got him on the back of the head!"

"His…_football_?" Allen mulled the thought over in his head. It still made _no_ sense, to him.

"Yeah! See?" the girl pointed at the tall Japanese guitarist, who was currently seething on a park bench, arms stretched behind the back. "Aww. You didn't get the ball?"

"Shut up." Kanda sniffed in offense. "I _deserve_ the fucking ball. He hit _me_ on the head and didn't say sorry? I'll make _him_ sorry!"

"I'm sure you will," Lenalee replied with ease, nodding her head.

Lavi held up Allen's arm. "Found the Brit!" he announced, giving his friend a thumb up.

"The reason I'm not _blind_, Cyclops, is because I can clearly _see_. Jesus fuckin' Christ, I hate your existence most of the time."

The redhead grinned, leaning closer to Allen's side. "You heard that, Al?" he whispered in the boy's ear. "_Most_ of the time. That means that there's also a time where he _doesn't_ hate me!"

"I find this surprising," Allen replied, and he was actually honest. "He comes across as 'hate-all' to me."

Kanda narrowed his blue eyes. "Yeah, well, you don't know me." He leaned back on the bench, huffing heavily.

"I hope he isn't angry at me because a child didn't give him his football." The white-haired teenager muttered, looking around the large expanse of the park. He was rather awed, as he'd only come here once before, and that was when he first came to America, last year.

In a short distance, near a crowded group of people, he spotted another band. "I'm guessing this is where people are signing up," he commented.

"Right-o, Al." Lavi held a hand over his eyebrows and peered ahead. "And, I hope I'm going blind in my last eye, but that other band looks _ridiculously_ familiar."

"Really?" Allen stared a little harder. The frame of the largest member _was_ rather recognizable.

Kanda looked over in that direction, and he immediately scowled. "_Shit_," he cursed, leaning forward. "It's Skin Boric."

"Skin Boric?" the pianist looked again. Dear Lord. "It _is_ Skin Boric." And, at this point, Skin noticed them too. He tapped the shoulder of a shorter figure and pointed towards them. "And, if _Skin Boric_ is here, then it must mean—"

Speak of the devil, and he never even started. The lead singer of _Noah's Ark_ took the time out of his dear, sweet life to walk up to the members of the _Black Order_. "Al_len_," he greeted with a voice that almost sounded like a purr.

This wasn't going to work out. "…" Allen sighed, rubbing his temples. "Mikk. Why are you here?"

Tyki leered, straightening his fashionably ripped jacket. "Why _aren't_ I here?" he replied, shrugging. The wavy-haired man smirked. "I'm only gonna guess, and I'm _guessing_ here, that you and your…_band_…" He looked at Lavi with disdain. "Are signing up for the B of the B?"

"B of the—oh, right, Battle of the Bands." The fifteen-year-old nodded. "We are. I'm assuming you are, as well?"

"Oh, but _not_." Tyki laughed. "We've been signed up for months now. I've got some connections in the system, if you can catch my drift."

Kanda looked increasingly suspicious.

"Yes, well, that's nice," Allen replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. The man was going to _try something_, he knew it somewhere deep inside of him. All he had to do was wait, and it would be proven. "Unfortunately, we are _not_. So, um, if you'll move aside…?" He took a wayward step to the right.

Tyki mirrored the movement. "You aren't?" he asked in faux shock. "That's a shame, baby."

"Don't call me _baby_, for the Lord's sake."

"Okay, _darling_," he pronounced it sarcastically, rolling his golden eyes. "Anyway, here's something you might want to hear." Tyki stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You sign up now, there's only a fifty-fifty chance of you getting in."

Lenalee was totally attentive, but Allen didn't exactly know whether it was because it was _Tyki Mikk_ or because it was _Tyki Mikk_. "Uh huh," she cajoled, looking interested. "Keep going."

"So," the twenty-six-year-old man continued, making a small shrug. "I can make it so your chance is a hundred, _plus_."

"We'll take it!" Lenalee exclaimed, patting Allen's shoulder excitedly.

"What? No!" Allen cried, turning around. "He wants my _virginity_, or something like that!"

"No," Tyki corrected, smiling. "I only want _some_ of it. I'm like cocaine, just give me a few minutes and I'll have you coming back for more."

Lavi huffed. "You're more like that AIDS epidemic going around, a straight _killer_."

"Thanks," the Portuguese man replied, flashing a smile at him. "So, Allen, baby," he turned back to said teenager, who looked rather frightened. "What do you say?"

"Uh—"

"No." Kanda had stepped in front of Allen, his arms crossed and his stance threatening. "Why the fuck don't you just back off, creep?"

"Hmm?" Tyki hummed, cocking an eyebrow at the display. He smirked. "Oh, you've got a crush on him too? Ironic, and I'm talking fer sure." He waved a hand in Kanda's face. "Unfortunately, I'm gonna need you to step away, because I wasn't exactly _talking_ to you—"

Kanda pushed out his arms, shoving the older man backwards a few steps. "You step back first," he replied, clicking his tongue in disdain.

"Allen…" Tyki huffed, looking around the Japanese teenager to look at the pianist. "Could you possibly pull back the leash on your dog? I don't dig the thought of him shedding on my Gap pants."

"Oh _shit_," Lavi walked up, running his fingers through his hair. "Look man, I can't stand you dissing my _best friend_, let alone my _BFF_."

Kanda stopped and looked at him. "That was _so fucking gay_," he commented, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah, well, so are you. Anyway, back up, because I can totally take Mister Sexy over here."

Tyki laughed. "Once again, thank you."

"No way," the nineteen-year-old said, shaking his head. "Give me a minute, and I'll have the prick bawling. So, Mikk, one question," Kanda cracked his knuckles threateningly, and Allen winced at the sound. "Which side is your best?"

"Best? Please," Tyki ran his fingers through his hair, smiling. "I'm hot on both sides. So, pick one."

Lenalee gave Allen the dirtiest look he had _ever_ been on the receiving end of. "Dump him!" she hissed. "If you don't want him, I'll totally take him!"

"You can _have him_," Allen replied, covering his eyes. This was so embarrassing, he wanted to go home. "I…I just wanted to be here so we could sign up, not meet up with Mikk, like _usual_—is he stalking me?"

Kanda, whom at this point was ready to punch out both sides, looked at Allen. "_Doy_, dimwit," he snapped, furrowing his eyebrows. "Even a half-blind dude could see _that_."

"Totally," Lavi agreed, crossing his arms.

"It isn't _stalking_," Tyki interjected, rolling his eyes. "It's irony, and in certain situations."

"Shut up." Kanda replied. "Your reasoning _sucks_."

"Yes, well, so does your music—"

Lavi knocked him in the chin, sending him reeling back. "Once again, not me," he started, grinning. "Not my best friend, not my BFF, and not our music, burnout."

Behind the redhead, a finger tapped him on the shoulder. "Aw, damn," he cursed, turning around and immediately ducking as a fist went for his face. "Skin fucking Boric, what's up?"

Skin stretched his arms lazily, a lollipop stick sticking out from between his lips. "Nothin' much," he answered in his slow Louisiana drawl, pounding a fist into his palm. "Just, ready and rearin' to kick your cornchip ass, Red."

"That's…that's cool. I guess." Lavi jumped back once more, feeling an inkling of fear sliding down his back. He was going to die, and at the hands of a fucking member of _Noah's_ fucking _Ark_. "Hey, Allen, he started, gulping. "If I die, would you revive me with a kiss?"

Allen smiled, shaking his head. "Why not?" he responded, crossing his arms. "You'd deserve it, that's for sure."

Tyki patted Skin on the shoulder. "Skin," he said, smirking. "Don't kill them. We need to settle this like men—no offense miss, even though you punch like a boxer."

Lenalee beamed. "Thank you."

"Settle it like men?" Lavi hummed, mulling the option over. He wasn't going to die yet, thank Christ. "Okay! I've got a fuckin' A for _awesome_ idea!" He waved them over. "Who here isn't that good at sports?"

Skin snorted. "You gotta be kiddin' me. I was on my college's varsity team, you better believe it."

"Don't worry, we _do_." Lavi looked at everyone else. "Is he the only one kickass at sports?"

Kanda rolled his shoulders back. "I'm good," he muttered, scowling. "Certain sports, though."

Tyki nodded. "So am I."

Allen shrugged. "Only football," he replied.

The redhead grinned, straightening his back. "Kickass," he cheered. "All right, so, we're gonna play football, and settle this like men."

Skin and Tyki both shared a grin. "_Futbol_?" Tyki repeated. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No, no," the large drummer corrected, patting the man's shoulder. "_Football_. Not soccer."

"I know. I said _futbol_."

"Get with the times, _esé_," Kanda snapped. "It's fucking _American_ football. Your bodyguard is right, we're not playing soccer."

Allen shoved him. "He's _Portuguese_," he hissed. "How would you feel if someone kept calling you Chinese, prick?"

"Like kicking their ass," the older teenager answered honestly. "Why?"

Before he could retort to that, Lavi held up a hand. "All right!" he exclaimed with a grin. "We're gonna play football. _Touch_ football."

"No tackling?" Tyki looked relieved at that.

"None whatsoever. All right boys, let's spread out!"

Skin blinked. "Wait, where's the fuckin' ball?" he demanded.

"I've already gotten that taken care of. Lenalee! Get the ball!"

Lenalee rolled her eyes. "That kid isn't going to listen to me—"

"Just _try_, Lenalady."

"Fine." She walked off towards a corner of the area, where a few kids and teenagers played catch.

Kanda watched her go. "You know I could've totally had the ball by now, right?" he told Lavi.

"Sure. Totally."

The dark-skinned drummer yawned. "Can she hurry up? I want to destroy your white asses."

"I'm not white," Kanda stated automatically.

"I'm _European_," Allen included.

Lavi looked putoff. "So, what, I'm the only one? Christ, you guys suck."

The British teenager laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "No, really, it's okay. That makes you special."

The redhead smiled at that, spreading his arms. "Aww," he cooed, ready to hug the younger teenager. "That's so nice of you." He looked up. "Oh. Hi Missus Lee!"

Lenalee looked disturbed. "Take your _bogus_ football," she snapped, tossing the leather ball at Lavi.

He caught it, confused. "What's happenin'?" he asked, blinking.

"Do you know how I got that football?" she replied, huffing. "The brat wanted to _feel up_ my boobs. My boobs!"

"Ooh, that's gotta be awkward." Lavi winced. Then he smiled, giving her a thumb up. "You just helped us out a _lot_ though, so muchos thanksimos!"

"Whatever," Skin snatched the football from the smaller drummer's hands, tossing it in the air with ease. "Let's just play. Two against three?"

"Looks that way," the redhead replied, shrugging. "You'll be all right, right?"

Tyki caught the football in midair, twirling it on his finger. "_Futbol_," he said. "That _has_ to be a joke."

"Then, you'll be fine." Lavi looked at the long ends of the green field. "Touchdown for you guys is at that tree," he stated, pointing in said direction. "We're at the other park bench. What makes a winner?"

"First to get two touchdowns," Skin replied, flashing a surprisingly white smile. "Gotta keep this short 'n sweet, gotta band meeting in two hours."

"Not a problem."

"Then, let's play ball!"

Allen coughed into his fist, and pulled Lavi down. "Whatever you do," he hissed. "Do not throw the ball to me."

Kanda nodded. "He's got a point."

Lavi sighed. "Fine. I'll just throw it to Yuu and leave you, Brit-boy, to tackle down Skin Boric."

"Ah," the British teenager blinked. "That's virtually impossible."

"Hey, that's just life."

* * *

I HAVE TO STOP WRITING NAO.

I must. I'm getting a terrible headache just thinking right now, and forcing myself to write more just wouldn't help me. At all.

Originally, this chapter was supposed to be 3000 something words and a football scene of epic proportions. It ended up being 9001 something words with a scene _leading_ to the football scene, but without the actual football scene.

That will be next chapter, and the fact that I cut it off makes for some proper motivation! :D

(also, a note to the world and the ever-understanding readers: I'M TRYING REALLY HARD. The Incredible You just won't write itself, no matter how hard I try to make it. GIVE ME A LITTLE MORE TIME, I'LL GET IT DONE, I SWEAR.)

(I might rewrite this chapter to add the football scene, though. Maybe not.)

I'm also really proud of the lot of you guys, because you're catching onto the lingo and the pop culture references! Many props, yo!

Oh. CRUNCH IS AN EVIL PUPPY. She's evil. _Evil_. She pissed on me. D: And, she ate my headphones. She will get her's, though, because I plan on going to Emi's house later today. :D ELOL

Once again: I'm really sorry. Hopefully you can forgive me…? D:


	24. Labor of Love

_TWENTY-FOUR_

"First thing," Lavi started, throwing the football in the air. "I'm saying 'hut'."

Kanda looked at him in disgust. "_Why_?" he asked.

"I need to." The redhead huffed. "It's, like, my _life dream_."

"Actually, the correct term would be '_life's'_ dream. Notice the 'S'." Allen said, observing the back of his gloved hand with a look of nonchalance. Unfortunately—that is, in his opinion—Tyki Mikk was observing him too, but with a smile that did not look like it was for his brand of clothing.

Lavi smiled. "Okay, whatever." He checked his watch. "Men, it's about twelve. Let's get this started!" The eighteen-year-old let out a whoop, ready to pivot on his heel towards the middle of the field.

Tyki cocked an eyebrow. "Whoa, Red," he stated, holding up a hand. "I don't think we talked about the winner yet. Have we?" He looked up at Skin with narrowed golden eyes.

The larger man shook his head. "Naw," he replied. "We ain't talked about a damn thing for the winners. What's the point of playin' if you ain't gonna get anything for winnin'?"

Allen hummed, running his fingers through his hair. "He has a great point," the boy agreed. "I would hate to win without actually _winning_ anything. That's ridiculously unfair."

Lavi tossed the ball in the air once more, sniffing in annoyance. "All right," he said. "We'll have winner terms and shit. Laurel and Hardy, you guys can go first."

"Yeah?" Tyki grinned, crossing his arms. "Awesome. So, this is what we want, and take the time to listen," he narrowed his eyes at the opposite band members. "I can do whatever the _hell_ I want with Allen, and none of you will give me shit about it." He sneered, raising his eyebrows. Then, he began ticking off examples. "If I want to talk to him, then nobody—_nobody_—can try and butch up my moment. If I want to hug him, or something, then let me go on with it. If I want to corner the beauty in the bathroom, then just let it happen. Can you relate?"

Needless to say, Allen was terrified, and it was almost tangible with his facial expression. "Dear Lord," he breathed, stepping back a little farther. "What have I done in this terrible, terrible country? May I _please_ go home—the men aren't barmy like they are here!"

Skin rolled his eyes. "Anyway, since this is obviously a one-man-band," he started, yawning. "If we win, I want you all and your kindergarten band to get out of this scene, because you ain't gon' make it." He grinned cruelly, hands tucked into his jean pockets. "I'm bein' nicer than Tyki here, 'cause I don't want your little pianist."

"Thank the good Lord for that," Lavi deadpanned, while his older, Japanese companion covered his mouth in a faux move to vomit. "But, yeah, that is a bogus image in my head."

"_Eww._" Kanda grumbled, frowning. He tapped at his temples, furrowing his eyebrows. "Christ, why is the picture not leaving my fucking mind? It won't pencil out! This isn't cool!"

"Well then stop _thinking_ about it," Allen retorted, finding disgust in the fact that his (assumed) friends were imagining him in a relationship with _Skin Boric_. In his own mind, it would be an imminent failure, because he was five foot seven, and the large drummer was off the charts.

_Oh dear Lord my imagination_, he suddenly thought with a pronounced gape, hands stilled in the air.

Fingers were snapped in his line of sight. "Wake up, brat," Kanda said, repeating the action. "Nobody cares about your fag freak outs."

Allen blinked, finding that focusing on the aggravation that is Kanda actually helps gets other less important images out of his mind. "Well then," he replied with a smile. "I'm just fine with that, because nobody also has the time to care about _you_ in general. Ah! Don't give me that look, as you know it's true."

"Ouch." Tyki snapped his fingers, grinning. "Those are some radical band dynamics—I almost couldn't feel the burn."

"Shut up, creeper," Kanda growled, narrowing his eyes. "We've got some winner's shit too. We want—"

The British teenager froze.

Knowing the guitarist, the demands were probably going to be stupid and make him want to lose the game just so he wouldn't be a part of them. Of which, that wasn't very attractive in his opinion. "No!" Allen exclaimed, holding out an arm in front of the Japanese teenager. "I want to make the winner's terms."

Kanda stopped, blinking. "What the _fu_—" he began, turning towards the boy.

"You don't understand, Kanda," the youngest teenager insisted, eyebrows furrowed in horror. "Mikk is serious business—he wants my _arse_ and if we lose, it will be his. I don't want that!"

Kanda did not look convinced. "Neither do I, so why should we let you fuck up our winner's shit?" he demanded, arms crossed.

"I can make a deal that will not cock up our band nor my backside." Allen smiled, albeit with a small quirk. He winked. "Trust me on this—I can make a gamble _work_."

Lavi nodded immediately. "Dude, _I_ trust him on that, 'cause he can be my personal banker with all the money he juiced from me."

Lenalee leaned up on the tips of her toes to whisper loudly in Kanda's ear. "Not only that, but he can totally get me a date," she said excitedly. "Dude, let _him_ do it!"

Allen was very sad that the girl had a brother like Komui, since it was apparent she was severely lacking the social experience pertaining to boys and what they want. And, considering Bak Chan and _his_ fancy of Lenalee, she blatantly needed a little more time with some boys her _own_ age. So she doesn't get raped, like he will be if they don't win this game.

"…" Kanda sniffed in offense, waving a hand in dismissal. "_Fine_."

"Thank you _so much_, for you are now a beautiful man in my eyes," Allen stated with a bright smile, and he ignored the older teenager's squawk of indignation as he turned to Tyki and Skin. "Here are our terms," he started, holding up one finger. "First off, _clear off!_ I will tell you one more time, Mikk. I am _fifteen_, I am _uninterested_, and I am _deeply disturbed._" He needed to accentuate that, because no one would take him seriously otherwise.

Lenalee made a loud hissing sound to get his attention. "Ask Tyki for his number!" she whispered loudly, hands encircling the shape of her mouth.

The white-haired boy looked at her with an expression of sadness. "It's okay," he replied. "I already have it."

Tyki perked up. "Oh, you kept it?" he asked with a smile.

"Unfortunately, _yes_." Allen held up another finger, ready to continue. "Next, for our winning, we'll need you to tug on your connections a bit and get us into the Battle of the Bands. As well, we'll need your pay our way if there are costs involved." He sighed, covering a cheek with a light touch of his gloved fingers. "I am only fifteen, Lavi is but a librarian, Lenalee has Komui as a brother, and Kanda is an idiot. Our funds are rather low—"

"If there was a time for me to kick your slick-talking ass," Kanda growled, cracking his knuckles. "I'd have to say now is just about right."

"You're a little too old to be picking on Allen, aren't you?" Tyki asked with a cocked eyebrow. "You've gotta be, like, twenty. He's only fifteen, like I learned today."

Allen resisted the urge to smack his forehead, because he knows for a fact that he's been telling the man his age since the first day they met—of which, _wow_, it feels like it's been such a long time since then.

"I'm fucking _nineteen_," Kanda retorted, scowling. "I just _turned_ nineteen—why the fuck does everyone think I'm twenty?"

"That's what _I'm_ wondering," Allen muttered aloud. He shrugged the thought off and held up three fingers. "Back to the business. Last demand from us," he grinned. "_Surrender_."

That was quick to confuse the congregation. "Surrender?" Tyki repeated, looking rather perplexed. "Like, _Cheap Trick_ Surrender? 'Mommy's alright, Daddy's alright'?"

"Get out! I love that song," Lavi said, holding up a thumb in approval.

"Ugh, that's so _seventies_, though," Lenalee commented, hands on her hips. "Like, mega-oldies. You need to keep up with the times, Red."

Skin cocked an eyebrow. "It only came out seven years ago," he interjected, scratching his head in thought. "That ain't even long enough to be outdated—not like _Yellow Submarine_ or something."

"Dude, leave the Beatles out of this," the red-haired drummer threatened, waggling a finger in a scolding manner. "They are _too icy_ to be mentioned by mere humans like us." He clasped his hands together in a position not unfamiliar to most Christians. "Please, Jesus Christ—also known as Ringo Starr," Lavi prayed loudly, eye closed. "Forgive this molded McFly for mentioning the greatest band on fucking earth in a convo not completely about the Beatles."

"Man, shut up." Skin sniffed, a grin on his face. "Best band in the world is The fuckin' Who—bump Ringo, Keith Moon was most triumphant."

"I can't go for that," Lavi replied, shaking his head. "No can do. Ringo Starr would eat Moon for, like, _breakfast_ or something."

Allen found it to be very touching that the two drummers could find a common interest in old bands and their idol drummers, but he was rather put off that nobody understood what he meant by 'Surrender'.

"No, I do _not_ mean like _Cheap Trick_'s Surrender," he clarified, rolling his eyes. "I mean literal _surrender_." _Stupid Americans_, that was the thought that coursed through his mind several times, even though only a few people in this little conversation were actually legally such. They had the mindset though, and that was all that mattered. "If you lose this game of…_football_? I'd say rugby, but anyway." Allen shrugged. "Your band has to drop out of the _Battle of the Bands_ competition."

The expression on Tyki's face was the closest thing to priceless he would probably ever get. "Whoa," he started, holding up a hand. "Baby, what? You want me to compromise my band over a five minute _futbol_ game?"

"It's pronounced fucking '_foot-ball_', skeezer!" Kanda snapped.

"I said that!" the Portuguese man insisted, a frown on his handsome face. "Back off. But, back to you and your deal—"

"It's not a deal quite yet," Allen replied with a grin. "And, you can always revise your own terms. Smashing, right?"

"Oh yeah, totally primo," Tyki replied blandly, sighing. "You got me—pushed me into a corner, and I can't move around, fight back, or stand up—" he hummed lowly in his throat, a smile on his face. "—and I like that." The smile morphed into a leer. "I like that a lot."

Skin looked at him, slightly disturbed. "You get off on little bastards like _this_?" he asked in a voice one octave higher than his original deep baritone. "…You're fuckin' warped, man."

"Hey, don't knock it." Tyki said in a teasing tone.

"You've never even _tried_ it!"

"That's what _you_ think."

Lenalee gave Allen a look of either betrayal or acute amazement (but he was willing to put his money on both, and he rarely does that). "You banged Tyki?" she asked. "Because, if he's tried you, then he's totally gotten on—"

"_No_." Allen looked distinctly disturbed at the prospect of having sex with _any_ man. "Just…_no_. Dear Lord, you've gotten the image stuck in my head!"

"Sorry, Al." But she didn't look very sorry at all, which irked the youngest teenager just the slightest bit.

"Hmph." He huffed, puffing his cheeks in the smallest pout. "Anyway." He turned to Tyki, who was gazing at him lazily and kicking at the ground with his very nice black-toed Vans. "What do you say, Mikk? You take away a demand; I take back the career-crippling term."

Tyki shrugged, clicking his tongue. "Didn't see this coming," he admitted, smiling. "Okay. So, I take back Skin's talk about you guys getting out of the business."

"What?" Skin demanded, straightening up. "Why _my_ shit?"

"Because if we win, _I'll_ still get my happy ending." The dark-skinned singer grinned. "I just saved our career, Skin. Be a man about it."

"I will kick your Mexico-tanned ass and _then_ we can see about bein' a man." The Southern man shook his head in disbelief, eyes wide. "You…you fuckoff."

"Love you too."

"Fantastic!" Allen clapped his hands together, the leather making a very light sound. "Then, I take back the _Battle of the Bands_ surrender. Now, we can play!" He smiled brightly, turning around towards his other band members.

Yet, two of them were already in a huddle, whispering furiously.

"…What are you doing?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow in question. "We need to play, not…look like idiots."

The one-eyed drummer looked up, an offended expression on his face. "Why aren't you in the huddle?" Lavi asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Dude, the huddle won't be hot forever. Get _in_."

Allen stared at the two-man huddle, a finger tapping at his chin. "Um, _how_?" he questioned in a slow tone.

"Hey, Yuu, move your arm."

"Eh." Kanda rolled his eyes, lifting up his arm to make room.

The British teenager winced, covering his lips with gloved fingertips. "…You _do_ use _Old Spice_, right?" he asked in a tone that was not meant to offend, but obviously failed as the older teenager scowled. "Well, maybe not that brand, but any general deodorant."

"That's like me asking if I wanted to kick your ass for asking stupid questions. _Yes_."

"Then, okay." Allen moved slowly, ducking his head into the huddle and keeping an obvious distance from Kanda. "Okay, what's the plan?"

Lavi hummed lowly in his throat, a determined light in his eye. "All right," he started, patting his friends on their shoulders. "It'll be like this, so listen up. Allen, baby, don't hate me for this, but you're going after Skin." He looked up, nodding towards the large man a distance away. "The Boric, you got to take him down. Yeah, I was serious about that earlier."

"…" Allen stared at him for a good three minutes, and he probably forgot to breathe during that time. "One," he started in a tone of voice lower than his usual high tenor. "You specifically said _Touch_ football."

"Yeah, well, if you want to lose, then that's all fine and dandy." The green-eyed teenager shrugged. "But, I ain't feeling that bomb. So, we'll have to kinda cheat. Kinda. It's just a little tackle—won't hurt 'em or anything!"

"_Two_," the younger teen replied, his eyebrow forming a small tick. "Why are you sending me after _Skin Boric_?"

Lavi was not as ready to answer that. "Um, y'see—"

"_La-vi_," Allen pronounced each syllable with a definite dark emotion. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disdain. "Skin Boric. You are telling me to take down Skin _bloody_ Boric, a man with muscles that could feed _me_ heartily for a few days." He leaned in closer to the redhead, a smile on his face. "It's clear that I have overestimated your intelligence."

"…Did you just call me stupid?" Lavi asked, blinking as though it were the first time anyone had even made the vague _implication_ that he was less than a genius.

"No, I'm actually calling you a dimwit," the British teenager corrected. "I always believed you were smart, even if you came across to me as quite the moron—but this was a secret," he whispered that part, holding a finger to his lips.

The redhead nodded slowly, feeling insulted that the secret was out—and in his face, at that!

"But, when you want to send _me_, Allen Walker—the English boy of but fifteen years—after Skin Boric—the Louisiana-born-and-raised man of more than twenty, then you are clearly stupid. There are no more ifs, ands, ors, or buts."

"But—"

"See? I just told you that those were out of this insane equation!" Allen narrowed his eyes. "I will not go through with it."

"Then what the fuck are you going to do?" Kanda retorted, rolling his eyes as though the white-haired boy were the true idiot at the moment. "Go after Mikk? Because I already called him."

"What?" Lavi demanded in a whine. "But, _I_ called Tyki! I've got this kickass tackle I wanna try out on him! It's fuckin' awesome, like Tyki's just running, right? So, the Lavi—that's me—swoops in on the Hispanic herb's side and does a radical ram into his shoulder by jumping in the air. Then, bam!" He clapped his hands together loudly. "Tyki-boy's out for the fuckin' count! If that's awesome, gimme a yes, yes?"

Kanda stared at him for a good three seconds, not even taking the consideration to blink. "Dude, no," he snapped, narrowing his eyes. "You'd fail harder than the brat at puberty. Better off tackling _Señor_ Fuckface from the back, make him fall over on his front. Can you relate?"

"But, _no bueno_, he's a rockstar!" the redhead replied, waggling a finger. "The hoser's got some balance on him, especially since he's always movin' around onstage! Only way either of us could get him is if both of us got him."

"So, what? We tackle him at the same time?" The guitarist hummed in thought. "…That's fucking awesome, I'm in."

"_Que sera sera_, man." Lavi grinned, knocking his friend on the shoulder.

"…" Allen smacked his forehead, dragging the hand down his face in a show of exasperation. "You two _do_ realize that Mikk is Portuguese, correct?" he asked slowly, sighing. "Spain and Portugal don't even share a bloody language! Get your facts straight, in the very least!"

Kanda snorted in disdain. "Yeah, well," he replied in a grumble. "We would get our _facts straight_ if you could take down Boric—"

The British pianist paused, a smile creeping onto his face. "Is that a _bet_ I hear?" he purred, raising his eyebrows with an obvious interest.

Lavi threw his best _amigo_ a look that cried for him to answer _no_. Because his wallet was still healing from that 'Kanda's Birthday' expenditure, and if the Japanese man went through with it, then _he_ was forced to go through with it too.

"Bet?" Kanda looked suspicious. "Another one?"

"Ah, I don't know what you're talking about, but I _do_ know that you just offered to make a deal with me," Allen replied, grinning in a way that made the one-eyed teenager want to hide underneath Kanda's van. "So, out with it! What'll it be?"

"Huh." The nineteen-year-old furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "Okay. We'll make it a bet, I guess."

"Then I'll start!" the British teenager tapped at his upper lip in consideration. "Well, if I can take down Skin Boric, then I want the both of you to buy me lunch. For two weeks."

Lavi gripped Kanda's arm hard enough to leave bruises. "_No_," he hissed. "Pretend its drugs or something—just say _no_!" Wait, bad suggestion, especially with the whole cannabis business and how with Kanda it isn't a recreational drug. It's a way of life.

"Dude, you're fucking _touching_ me," Kanda commented, glaring. "Back off, or I will crash my van into your living room."

The one-eyed teenager slowly raised an eyebrow. "I live on the second floor—"

"I can make it work." The Japanese guitarist turned back to Allen, who was smiling so hard he couldn't tell if it was fake or just really eager. "If you can't do it," he said with a smirk. "Then, you've gotta cut your hair. I am talking _bald_—shiny enough for the sun to blind me or something."

Well. Allen coughed lowly in his throat. He did _not_ look good with no hair, according to the image in his head. "Done," he replied. He held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Lavi loved Allen more than a lot of things, but Satan has _nothing_ on the kid.

"Yeah," Kanda shook his hand firmly, and that was the redhead's soul right then and there. "I'll have the clippers ready for you by tomorrow, fer sure."

"Mm hmm," Allen hummed in reply, hooking one thumb in a pant pocket while running the other hand through his hair. "By the way," he started in a tone that was years older than him. "To me, lunch is breakfast, dinner, or anything in between. I hope you get paid once a week with your ever-mysterious nighttime job of whoredom—excuse my Americanism."

Kanda shrugged. "Whatever," he replied, obviously caring very little.

And that's when Lavi couldn't take it anymore.

The redhead smiled with a small twitch. "_Yuu_," he said, looping his arm with Kanda's. "Sprangler, buddy, friend, _amigo_—come over here a moment, fer sure? I need to _talk to you._" He practically dragged the Japanese teenager to the other side of the field.

"What the fuck, zeek?" Kanda demanded, wrestling his arm out of the redhead's vice grip.

"No, no, do _not_ 'what the fuck' me," Lavi hissed, glaring. "You. Do. Not. Think. Things. Through. _Period!_" He accentuated each syllable with a chop of his hand to his palm. "You are an _idiot_!"

Kanda had the gall to look slightly insulted at that. "What?"

"You know that thing in your head?" And, Lavi had the gall himself to go out of his way and grab at Kanda's long ponytail. He tugged it. "It is called a _brain_. Dude, you're fucking _stupid_." He grimaced. "I'll tell you what I use my brain for, and I'll tell it to you good. I use it to _think_. _Think!_ Thought, calculate, all that other shit, it doesn't matter, because _you don't do it_."

The Japanese guitarist was too surprised to neuter the freak for touching his hair. "Dude, _calm down_—"

"No, _dude_, you _shut up_," Lavi clicked his tongue in disdain. "I _thought_ you used your brain, but you obviously don't. You know what? You should just sell it, put it in the pawn shop, because we're going to need the money."

Kanda huffed, crossing his arms. "I _have_ a job—"

"No, you're a fucking dumbass, and this is what you've done." The redhead groaned. "You've dug our graves, you've sold our souls, you've pushed us into the _hole_!" He pointed accusingly at Allen, who waved back with a smile. "Do you see the hole? You just might wanna throw your money in there now, because you aren't gettin' it _back_."

"…The _hole_?" the older teenager replied in a deadpan. "Is that what you're going to call him?"

"Hell _yeah_!" Lavi threw his arms up in frustration. "I was going to get that new Phil Collins album, _No Jacket Required_, but I'll have to wait until fucking July _19__th_! That's when the two weeks are over, just so you know."

"Uh _huh_." Kanda rolled his eyes. "Well, that's only if he can tackle down Boric—which is, like, _mega_ impossible."

Lavi shook his head, waving a hand in tired dismissal. "Sure, man," he said, sighing heavily. "Whatever you think. Because Brit is going to _blow your mind_." He walked back to the white-haired boy, smiling shakily. "Oh yeah."

"Had a nice talk?" Allen asked, grinning.

"Kinda." Lavi tucked his hands into his stonewashed jean pockets. "Either way, we put this off way too long."

A gloved hand patted his cheek. "That's the spirit!" Allen cheered.

Kanda snorted. "Are we gonna play yet?" he asked aloud.

"We're just waitin' for you guys!" Skin yelled, smirking. "'Course, we understand you don't want your asses kicked _too_ badly—"

The Japanese teenager cracked his knuckles ominously. "Then let's fucking _play_."

----

Lenalee yawned as Lavi yelled "_Hut!_" and the boys shot off on the makeshift field. Maybe it's because she's a girl, or maybe it's because football is the single most idiotic sport she's ever known, but she was bored out of her freaking mind and nothing was going to change that.

The best part about the game is watching the guys run around and tackle each other (she won't lie, all three of the boys in the _Black Order_ are off-the-charts good-looking, even if Allen is, like, one or two years younger than her), but stupid _Lavi_ took even that away from her, with this _Touch_ football crap.

"Bo-gus," she muttered, looking up at the bright blue sky. "Give me something interesting!"

And, as though the good Christian Lord himself had heard her complaint, Skin dived for Allen, who ducked out of the way with a clear look of panic on his face.

"…" Lenalee blinked. So…they _were_ tackling? "Yeah!" she cheered, pumping a fist in the air. "Go Al! Tackle him back!"

"Augh!" was the cry of a reply as the British boy tripped on the ground, rolling out the way of a slamdance courtesy of Skin Boric. "Why _me_?" he cried, jumping back to his feet.

The dark-skinned drummer sniffed, spitting his half-chewed lollipop stick to the ground. "'Cause," he replied. "When you guys were takin' a helluva long time with the huddle up like the fags you are," Skin reared back, stretching his right leg in favor for another tackle. "Tyki told me to."

And, on the other side of the field, Tyki himself was rather occupied. "Hey, Dumb and Dumbass," he greeted the two teenagers in the rival band, flashing a smile. "So, you're gonna try and tackle me?"

Kanda threw the ball to Lavi, who tossed it in the air. "Trying is lame," the redhead replied, scoffing as though the Portuguese man were stupid for even suggesting it. "That's why we're going to—go!"

The Japanese teenager had slammed his shoulder into Tyki's side before the sentence had even finished, making the man gasp for breath as he fell to his knees. Lavi grinned, twirling the ball in his finger.

Well, that was just unfair. "Hurgh," he tried to say, but it only came out as an illegible garble. Stumbling back up, he shot out his arm and shoved the redhead in the chest, making him drop the ball. "_Isso não estava f-fresco_," he drawled, voice still rather shaky. He picked up the ball and turned around on his heel, winking at the redhead.

"Wha—" Lavi started, blinking.

Tyki had already taken off down the field, going straight for their goal.

"…_Damn_," Kanda whistled, brushing off his blue jeans. "He runs fucking _fast_ in those pants—did he come here to model for the _Gap_ or some shit like that?"

Lavi did not know, but he did rub his chest to relieve the small ache that had formed from that rather rude shove. "Man," he muttered. "We need to get the next touchdown, and pronto. If they get another one—Al's ass is outta your reach, man."

"What?" Kanda replied, looking befuddled. Then, it hit him what the redhead meant. "Dude, quit _saying_ shit like that!"

"Like what?" Lavi asked innocently, grinning at Tyki, who gave them a mocking thumb up. "You can't say you aren't a little into that, with that being our favorite Tea-Sipper."

"Really? 'Cause last time I checked, uh, yeah, I _can_." The Japanese teenager shoved him out of the way for spite, stomping towards the middle of the field. "Christ, brat, get off the ground and get back up! They've got the ball now."

Allen was breathing rather heavily as he stood up, brushing off the back pockets of his jeans. "I w-wonder how they got that?" he muttered, cocking an eyebrow. "You obviously weren't d-doing your job, nitwit." He sucked in a breath, holding a hand to his chest. "Cor _blimey_," he breathed.

"Shut the hell up." Kanda raised an eyebrow at the boy's heavy lidded eyes, reaching out to plant a calloused palm on the top of the younger teenager's head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" Kanda's hand was batted at, but he didn't budge a bit. "I'm just a little hot, but it's not a problem." Allen smiled, holding up his gloved hands in a placating gesture. "I don't run around too much in this sweltering heat, you must understand. I'm from London."

Kanda was no idiot—yet this kid was officially completely _mental_ for even attempting to play football while wearing a long-sleeved black shirt. "Keep diggin', Watson," he retorted, pushing his hand against the kid's forehead. "Roll up your sleeves—no one's gonna give a goddamn, brat." He snorted at the boy's panicked expression, tugging at a sleeve against the silent wishes of Allen. "Give me someone with touchable AIDS, then I might care."

"You _arse_—" Allen smacked the older teenager's hand away from his right arm, choosing to practically tear it off as he rolled it up. His unhealthily pale skin stood out, and he took off the glove to that hand, tucking it in his back pocket. "There! Put a smile on your face, because I hope you are _happy_."

"Other arm." Kanda replied, shrugging. "Won't do to have you pass out in the middle of the game, especially before you—" Here, he coughed a little as a snicker tried to sneak past his lips, and he covered his mouth with a fist. "—_take down_ Boric. Ha!" The Japanese teenager held a hand to his throat as he gasped and hacked, making sounds that sounded as though he were dying a terrible and internal death.

Allen knew, though, that it was just the prick and one of his few attempts to laugh.

"When I get a car—" he started a slow threat, rolling up his other sleeve over his wrinkled red arm. A light breeze wisped by, musing his hair and giving his overheated skin some variation of relief.

"…yeah, yeah," the older teenager replied in a raspy voice, knocking the British boy on the shoulder. "There's a height requirement anyway—I have a few years until you're tall enough to reach the pedals."

Allen attempted a kick at the nineteen-year-old's calves, but missed terribly. "…Put a sock in it," he sniffed, walking past Kanda with his chin tipped up.

Lavi was already facing Tyki and Skin, bent over with the tips of his fingers touching the grassy ground. "Get in line, men!" he commanded. "We've got to kick ass, or Al's ass will be just like a Hall and Oates song—_Out of touch_."

"Thank you," Allen stated blandly, getting into position next to the one-eyed teenager. "I was thinking so much on our loss, the thought of my _arse_ was completely forgotten!"

"And I forgot you had arms," Lavi replied, cocking an eyebrow at the red skin of the boy's left arm. "Got too hot? Because I can dig that."

Kanda rolled his eyes. "The kid was about to die out there," he said, stretching his arms. "That's the whole damn reason for me wearing sleeveless shirts in the summer—so I don't almost pass out like _this_ skeezer."

Tyki yawned. "Can we play now?" he asked, rolling his eyes. Allen blinked at him, and he shrugged in reply. "What? Was I supposed to be shocked? It's not like I've never seen the arm before, I mean _doy._"

"What do you _mean_ you've seen it before?" Allen demanded. "The only way you could possibly do that is if you, well, were in my _house_ or someth—oh dear Lord."

"Hut!" the Portuguese man suddenly exclaimed, tossing the ball to Skin.

Allen immediately moved out of the way of the large man, heels digging into the grass as he reared back to give chase. _Wait_, he thought for a moment. _If I tackle him—and fail, then I'd might as well check myself into the ER room personally._ He paused, noticing how Kanda was already to the side of the dark-skinned drummer. _But…_

Skin threw the ball to Tyki, who was a few yards away towards their goal. Except, Kanda must've played this game or something back in his earlier days of high school, because he caught the ball tightly between his two palms with a clean interception.

"Fuck yeah!" Lavi cheered, coming to a stop and pivoting on his heel. He took off in a tight run towards the opposite goal of the tree. "Give it to me!"

Kanda glanced at him, but then he barely dodged another one of Skin's rather dangerous looking tackles. He reared back and threw the ball towards Lavi, who hopped in the air to catch it.

"Hold on," a sleek-sounding voice purred behind him. "Let's not get _too_ solid with that."

It was at that moment when Lavi understood completely why Allen was usually scared shitless at the mere mention of Tyki Mikk. He took off in a run, knowing the man would be right behind him with his too tight pants and his really nice shoes (he _had_ to get a pair of those for himself—they were just _stellar_!).

Allen winced as Lavi came towards him, with Tyki right on his heels. He felt bad, sure, but he simply couldn't afford to take the ball—especially not in such a _suggestive_ game—

"Al!" And that was the terrified cry of Lavi. "Catch, baby!"

The British boy damned his reflexes to the red Hell below as he instinctively caught the leather ball in his bare hands. He marveled at the feeling for a moment, because he usually wears gloves at times like these.

Then, he remembered that he had the ball. "I specifically asked you _not_ to throw it to me!" he exclaimed, running down the short distance to the goal. The shadow of the tree was close, and he could only make one more step towards the touchdown before a pair of arms encircled his waist.

Oh dear._ Have I sinned, Lord?_ Allen bemoaned in his mind, feeling his knees buckling underneath the extra weight. _What have I done to deserve this?_

The good Lord answered with wandering fingers against the fitted dark shirt on his flat stomach. That is, if Tyki Mikk were suddenly the savior or something to that degree (which Allen doubted more than he doubted Kanda had a real job).

"…you're _touching_ me, Mikk," the fifteen-year-old grounded out, eyes stuck on the shadow that _must've_ been centimeters away. If only he could get the ball a little closer!

Tyki grinned against his neck, and there was a cool touch against his navel. "Touch football, baby," he replied. "The rules are all good—read the book, you'll understand then."

"When I get a car—" He found this to be a very nice threat to think on. It gave him the chance to be creative with his techniques towards—_bloody hell_ were those _hands_ in his _pants_?

"Mmm," the twenty-six-year-old man hummed, a low rumble that vibrated against the boy's back. "Calm down, you're really kinda tense—"

_Yes!_ "Touchdown!" Allen cried, finally getting the ball to touch the shadow while still being held in his hands. "Please, feel free to _stop touching me_ now!"

"I totally second the notion, creep," Lavi agreed as he trotted up to the two on the ground. He blinked. "Whoa, if I turn my head this way, it almost looks like pedophilia."

"Really?" Allen asked sarcastically, wriggling around in an attempt to get from underneath the man. "Because, no matter how _I_ look at it—it's still pedophilia."

"No," Tyki replied, slowly raising himself off of the white-haired boy. "It's love, and that's a fact."

"Please, don't make me feel bad when I call the police later today." He felt dirty, and it wasn't because of the grass stains on his fairly new jeans. "So, the score is even now?" he asked Lavi, who nodded slowly.

The redhead threw his arms around Allen. "Sorry, babe," he whined. "I _had_ to throw it to you—you were _so_ fucking close to the goal! But, that Trendie can run like a black guy with a few cops on him, it's fucking ridiculous."

Allen nodded slowly, still not sure if he should forgive Lavi for being kind of a direct reason for his entirely unattractive molestation. He shuddered slightly. A bath was a definite _must_ when he got back home, he didn't care about _what_ Cross thought about his bath products.

----

Lenalee was having the best day of her seventeen years of life.

She wished she had a Polaroid camera, because this stuff is just _priceless_.

"Yeah! Go Tyki!" she yelled, jumping up and down in her lethal high heels. "Make 'em _taste dirt_!" It was at times like this she wishes she were a guy, _just_ so she could get tackled down by Tyki Mikk too. Allen looked like he was having fun anyway.

"You're totally cheering for the wrong team," a highly tinted voice commented, and Lenalee looked to her side to see the petite, teenaged guitarist of _Noah's Ark_. Rhode looked back up at her, smirking. "Tyki sucks—that cute guy in your band, he is _solid_."

"Um." Lenalee looked at the field, squinting as she tried to find whomever the girl was talking about. "Which one?" They were _all_ cute—in her opinion, at least.

Rhode pulled a ruby red lollipop out of her mouth, pointing it towards the game. "The white-haired one," she verified. "Tight pants, black clothes, sexy accent, and _mega_ cute."

"Allen? No way," Lenalee replied, shaking her head. "Did you _see_ Tyki run? God, it could've been a top ten MTV music video, I swear!"

The girl obviously ignored the second part of her comment. "That's his name?" Rhode blinked. "Allen? Huh, that's pretty generic—ooh, he must shop in the girl's section at _Arystar's_ because those jeans are making me want to read a book to get a better imagination, since he leaves _nothing_ for it."

"…" Lenalee couldn't help but shrug, because the younger girl totally had a valid point. _Did_ Allen shop in the girl's section? She'd have to ask—it was quickly becoming a mystery that needed solving! "Whatever, Tyki's pants are sweeter."

"Eww, that's, like, my cousin," Rhode gagged, one eye closed. "Ugh, gross me out the door. Imagining him with sweet pants is like…imagining him with sweet pants. It just gets more bogus the more I think about it—grodie!"

"Come _on_, you've got to say he's sexy and —holy crap I think that big kinda Barney dude is about to _actually_ tackle Al!" Lenalee exclaimed, bringing her fingers to her lips in shock. "There's no way he can dodge it! Since Tyki's got the ball—and he's behind Allen, that lucky bastard—and the goal is a few yards away!"

Rhode looked at the field herself, grinning. "Heck _yes_," she cheered. "Take him down, Skinny! But, leave him alive, since he's really hot!"

Her words meant nothing, because (in a move that was nothing short of a miracle) Allen had thrown himself at the giant man, grabbing his legs and holding on for dear life as Skin fell over on top of him.

"…" Lenalee and Rhode couldn't speak, because the silence was almost tangible in the large park as the dark-skinned drummer just _laid_ there on top of Allen, who was not moving at a healthy rate for escape. Even Tyki was shocked, since he dropped the ball with loose fingers and a wide-eyed expression. "…I think your drummer killed our synthesist."

"…I think that's the ticket, too." The spiky-haired girl stuck the lollipop back in here mouth, and she clapped her hands together once. "Skin! I asked you _not_ to kill him! God, you are so _stupid_!"

Skin looked towards her, a scowl on his face. "Shaddup!" he retorted. "He ain't dead—are ya, little man?" He got up off the boy slowly, palms digging into the grass below him.

Allen brought up his head, sputtering blades of grass and bits of dirt from his mouth. "I'm just _jolly_," he replied, shaking his white hair of any mud or grass. He tried to get up, but found that his efforts were useless because his body was still in the midst of a panic attack. "Might I get a hand, please?"

"Eh?" Skin laughed, holding out a large hand towards the boy. "Sure thing!"

"Thank you," the British teenager breathed as he stood up shakily, grass stains _everywhere_. It was horrible. "I can't believe I was able to tackle you."

"…" the Louisianan brushed off the lap of his pants. "Neither can I," he answered honestly, shrugging. "And, that's a fact."

Allen looked over at the other two members of his band—of which, Kanda was apparently getting chewed up verbally by Lavi, because he looked like he was going to explode in some sort of pissed off confetti—and he smiled. "That is a fact, actually."

"Yep," Skin paused, looking down at the boy who had picked up the ball from where it was simply laying on the ground. "What're you doin'?"

"What?" Allen waved a hand in dismissal. "Oh, I'm just getting this goal—thanks!" He took off down the grassy field towards the goal for the win, grinning as Tyki was busy scolding Skin so he couldn't follow him. Thank the great Lord for that, by the way.

Lenalee tried, she really did, but she just couldn't hold it in. "_Touchdown_!" she cried, jumping in the air once more with a fist pumped in the air. "Hell yeah! Take _that_ losers!"

"Hey," Rhode started, tugging on the older girl's vest. "Do you have his number? Because, I totally want it."

Lenalee looked at her suspiciously. "Well…only if you have Tyki's number," she replied drolly, crossing her arms.

"You've _got_ it!"

On the field, Allen was not sure if he should be proud of himself for gaining both of the touchdowns or if he should be very ashamed because he was caught in an American sport wherein _nobody_ knows how to play it according to the actual touch football rules.

He went with option A, because he deserved to smile.

"Blinding!" he exclaimed, holding the football in the air triumphantly.

His happiness was very short-lived.

"Ugh," a voice with a young sound groaned from behind him. "You guys _suck_ at football."

Allen turned around, blinking. "Who said that?" he demanded.

"Down here, Snowball."

The white-haired teenager looked down, and a brown-haired boy donning a rather unattractive bandana looked back up at him. His arms were crossed, and he did not look happy. His posse that surrounded him all had these looks of exasperation and 'why are we here?', though.

"Um." Allen coughed lowly in his throat. "Hello, I'm Allen?"

"Timothy." The boy held out his hand. "And I want my fucking ball back."

_Excuse me?_ "Excuse me?" Allen spoke aloud without realizing it. This child said _what_ to him? "You want your…_what_ ball back?"

Timothy sneered. "I want my _fucking_ football back—jeez, are you deaf?" He looked around, frowning. "And, where's the cute chick that took it before? She owes me!"

This was a time where Allen would usually offer to pay in place of a friend, but hell if he was going to let this _brat_ touch his chest over a bloody football! "You want your _fucking_ football back?" he repeated once more, not able to get over that statement.

"Ha!" Timothy barked a laugh. "Why do you talk like that?" Then, he went out of his way to mimic the way the teenager talked. "'You want your _faawking fuut-ball_ back?' That's so bunk!"

Allen rolled his eyes. "Either way," he continued, trying to lessen the thickness of his accent. "That word is bigger than _you_ are, and I'm not giving it back until you apologize."

"Apologize? For what? 'Cause I said _faawking_?" the brown-haired boy snickered. "Yeah _right_. Gimme back my ball!"

"Fuck no," Kanda snapped from behind Allen, who jumped a bit in surprise. "Don't give him that shit—give it to _me_, brat!"

"Aw man," Timothy moaned "It's pretty boy Betty again—I _don't_ want your breasts, dude. You're kind of a man, even though I couldn't tell at first."

This kid had a death wish, and that was a fact.

"I wasn't going to give it to him anyway," Allen replied, smiling. "Only when he deserves it, he will get it back."

"When I _deserve_ it?" the boy repeated, offended. "You aren't my mom or a lady—even though when I look this way you _are_ kinda hot for a guy." He tilted his head for emphasis.

Allen was appalled. "Why I _never_—"

"Leave him alone, Timothy," a blonde girl muttered, elbowing the brown-haired boy. "He just wants a 'sorry'! And, you totally need to give him and his cute friend one." She looked at Kanda for a moment and then looked back down, blushing.

_No taste_, Allen immediately thought with a wide smile. But, she was young, she didn't know any better, so she couldn't be blamed for her blinkered view.

"Shut up, Galmar Girl!" Timothy snapped, stomping a foot on the ground. "I don't owe him _shit_! It's _my_ ball—and he won't give it back!"

Kanda snorted. "Keep acting like that and I'll introduce you to high school a good seven years early," he growled, bending down on one knee to come face to face with the young boy. "You know what we do to punks like you in high school?"

"Kiss them?" Timothy grinned. "Fag."

"Nope," Kanda pulled at the boy's bandana. "We give them _swirlies_." He smirked. "There is a lake right over there, and I can easily just dump you in like the shit you are."

"Kanda!" Allen gasped, holding a hand to his mouth. "He's probably just seven."

"What?" Timothy blinked. "I'm _ten_, _Faawk_off." Again with the mimicking, and it was quick to get old.

"Oh, well." The white-haired boy looked away so he could hide his smile. Is this what Kanda felt when he looked at Allen himself? Because he could almost understand. "That's different."

"Give me back my ball or I'll _show_ you different!"

"Really?" Allen replied, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you _really_ going to show me different?"

"Hell yeah!" With that, the young boy jerked up a leg and kicked Allen squarely in the shin. The kid's steel-toed boots impacted with his sinewy muscle that was protected weakly by skin and denim jeans.

And, blimey, it _hurt_.

"Ow," the fifteen-year-old whimpered, falling to his knees and dropping the ball. "…_ow_."

Timothy picked up the ball before Kanda could, hopping back with a victorious grin. "Ha!" he crowed. "You suck!" He ran to the other side of the field, holding up the football like a championship trophy.

Kanda looked like someone broke into his car and stole everything precious (the marijuana). "I fucking hate you," he hissed to Allen, standing up straight. "You let the kid get away with the goddamn ball!"

"…_ow_," Allen replied, finding the throbbing ache in his leg to be rather distracting. "I'm sorry—I can't listen to you right now. I need to suffer a little more because I hate this place." He breathed slowly, trying to even out his pain.

The Japanese man was not put off. He shrugged. "…I still hate you."

"Never said you did. _Ow_."

----

"So," Tyki began, hands on his hips. "Looks like you guys won—even though I never had a doubt in my sweetheart Allen, you two still kind of surprised me. But, then again, you didn't. Losers."

Kanda was rubbing his knuckles as though they could grant him three wishes. "Fuck you," he retorted. "You're just buggin' because you lost."

"We did lose, didn't we?" the Portuguese man sighed, running his fingers through his wavy hair. "Alright. We've got to keep what we said we would—in _Noah's Ark_, we like to be honest. It's a great policy."

Allen shrugged, not exactly agreeing because he had a fair hand at the lying business himself. "So, you're going to go through with it?" he asked, arms crossed and expression serious.

"Completely." Tyki grinned, winking at the boy. "Consider yourselves _in_, with no problem."

"Smashing!" Allen narrowed his eyes. "But, what about the other term—"

"Oh, damn," the dark-skinned man whistled, checking his watch on his wrist. "We've got to book it—band meeting at one!" He took off in a jog towards the crowd on the other side.

Skin nodded. "Damn straight we've gotta go!" The large man nodded at the rival band members. "See you crackers later," he said, waving once before following Tyki.

Kanda shook his head. "Fuck," he muttered. "You _did_ take down Boric, didn't you?" He snapped his fingers as though he were bested at a game. "Shit."

Lavi wanted to kill him. He honestly to his God wanted to kill him, and with a lot of blood involved.

"It's all right," Allen replied, grinning. "We'll be starting tomorrow. Look forward to it!"

----

July 5th, 1985.

"I hate you," Lavi sang as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet in the line at McDonald's. "I really fucking hate you—yes Yuu, I mean you! I hate the way you are raping my wallet, I hate the way you act like this is just a walk in the fucking park, I even hate the way you chew gum all obnoxiously when I'm trying to sing a loving song to you. Like now!"

Kanda looked up, popping a bubble of blue gum loudly. "What?" he asked, blinking. "You were talking or something?"

"I _hate you_."

"Great job," the guitarist pulled his wallet out and opened the flap. He sifted through a few greenbacks, huffing. "What the hell do you want to eat, brat?"

Allen poked his head underneath Kanda's elbow, looking up at the menu. "Surprisingly enough," he said with a grin. "I'm not that hungry—"

The elbow bopped him on the head. "Then why the hell're we here, stupid?" Kanda asked, eyes narrowed.

"I'm not _that_ hungry," Allen repeated. "But I'm still hungry. I'll keep it simple—I want four orders of the Big Mac and fries, and an ice cream."

Lavi blinked. "A Big Mac _and_ an ice cream?" he demanded, hands on his hips. "You're gonna eat those at the same time? That's…that's ridiculous!"

"How so?" Allen replied, moving from underneath the long-haired teenager's arm. "It's not that uncommon, in America _or_ the U.K."

"Yeah…" Lavi rubbed his shoulder, frowning. "It's just…_weird_."

Kanda gave him a weird look. "Dude," he stated. "Don't…don't _push_ your ideals and shit on other people. Just because _you_ can't eat unsalted meat and dairy and shit doesn't mean—"

"Dude, shut the fuck up," the redhead hissed, shoving him rather violently. "That's _classified_ info, man."

Kanda rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he replied, walking to the cashier. He made a squinting face. "Hey, yeah, uh, can I get, like, a Kid's Meal?" he asked the cashier slowly, as though the man were an idiot.

Allen punched him in the shoulder. "You're a _jerk_," he hissed.

"Okay, _fine_." Kanda huffed in annoyance. "Can I get _two_ Kid's Meals?" He looked up at the menu once more. "And an ice cream cone."

Allen smiled in delight. "Good boy," he said, patting the older teenager on the back.

The look Kanda gave him from the corner of his eye was more than enough to make him take a few steps back, since he was not an idiot. Lavi, though, could spot danger even better, because he pulled the boy to a table towards the back.

"You're insane in the brain, Brit," the green-eyed teenager commented as he slid into his seat. "One day, though, he's just gonna kick your ass." He puffed up, grinning. "But, no prob', because I'll fight for you. Somehow. He's pretty strong, you know that right?"

"But, it's an all brawn and no brain situation," Allen replied, snickering. "I really want to play Chess with him one day. Just to see how badly I can murder him in the game before he throws the board up in anger."

Lavi shook his head. "I wouldn't play a game with you if there was a cash prize." He scowled, resting his chin on the open palm of his hand. "Because you'd juice that from me too."

"Oh, come on now," the younger teenager said, smiling. "You can't _still_ be narked over that. I won, fairly and squarely. Just accept it."

"Cheater."

Allen laughed, and a tray was dropped in front of him ungracefully. He looked down at the food, and realized that a Kid's Meal was quite possibly the most pathetic semblance of a meal he had ever even _considered_ eating.

"I believe I hate you," he commented, picking up a fry and biting at the end of it.

Kanda yawned. "Fuck you too," he replied without the usual bite or bark. "Move over, hoser."

"Have you ever considered writing a song?" Allen asked as he scooted to the window in the seat. "Because you seem to have a natural way with rhymes."

"No. Cyclops writes the songs, because he gets a kick out of love lyrics and shit." The Japanese teenager ran his fingers though his hair. "Can't you make a song that isn't gay as hell?"

"If I did, we'd be _Noah's Ark_." Lavi deadpanned. "They're always singing songs about shit like dying and getting no love and fighting the man and all that shit. If you can make a song that Lenalady can sing well and not have any of that crap, you'll have my vote for President."

Kanda flipped him the middle finger, looking over at Allen. "…What the fuck?" he demanded, eyes wide. "You just, _just_ had, like, a bunch of food there. What the hell happened?"

"Well—" Allen swallowed back a bite of his hamburger. "—I first chose what I was going to eat, and then I selected it. I placed it in my mouth, chewed thoroughly at least ten to fifteen times, and then I made the move to swallow. Here, let me give you an example." He took a large chomp out of his burger and chewed it at an obnoxiously slow rate.

Lavi stared at his ice cream cone. "…Man," he breathed, hitting his head on the back of his seat. "I _want_ one, too."

The British boy swallowed, covering his mouth as he did so. "So, why don't you get one?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. "What's stopping you?"

Kanda shrugged. "He's a Jew," he answered, waving a hand in dismissal.

"Oh," Allen replied with a shrug, stuffing more food in his mouth.

Lavi sat up immediately, eye wide. "What the _fuck_—" he moaned, hitting his forehead and dragging the hand down. "You're a fucking _jackass_, skeezer."

"Why? Because you're a Jew?" the Japanese teenager smirked cruelly. "Oh man, we might have to go soon, brat. McDonald's, it isn't too Kosher."

Allen stopped eating. "Wait, you were _serious_?" he demanded. "Lavi killed my Lord?"

Lavi held up his hands in defense. "No way!" he exclaimed. "I didn't even _know_ your Lord. Maybe an ancestor or something, but it wasn't _me_."

The fifteen-year-old had to put down his corner of a burger, he was so outdone. "I feel betrayed," he murmured, crossing his arms. "You never told me you were a Jew."

"And you never told _me_ you were Catholic—I just guessed." The redhead retorted, huffing.

Allen looked at him with a bland expression. "I'm not Catholic," he replied. "I'm _Protestant_. And this isn't about me! This is about Jew—I mean _you_. _You_. And don't look at Kanda, I'm too close to even try and use his name so easily."

"See?" Kanda nodded. "This kid learned faster than you, hoser."

"But!" Lavi continued, ignoring his friend's comment. "Does this change our love, baby? My heart, it beats for you! Can't you _hear it_?" He feigned silence, holding a hand to his chest dramatically. "Just because I don't believe Jesus Christ was the savior _doesn't mean_ we can't still be lovers. I mean, you eat everything I have to hate, and I accept _you_ for who you are. Why can't you do the same for me?"

"First of all, we aren't lovers," Allen replied, a hand to his temple. "Secondly, I can't help eating. It's in my nature." He frowned at this point. "And, thirdly, how the bloody hell do you find it in you to use the Lord's name in vain so much? You say 'Christ' and 'Jesus' as though you were mates back in the day!"

The redhead shrugged, smiling. "Too easy," he said. "It's not my Lord to use the name in vain, _duh_."

"…" Allen pulled off the glove to his left hand, sighing in finality. "I'm going to punch you now," he said slowly, wriggling his red fingers. "It might hurt."

Kanda nodded. "Get him in the stomach," he suggested. "It'll make him buckle up good—so good, he'll read the bible." He was sarcastic with his tone.

Lavi rolled his eye. "You're pulling a boho on me, Al," he whined. "Too dramatic!"

"Perhaps it is." Allen reared his arm back. "But, it's for a good cause."

* * *

No, he does not punch Lavi for real. He's too much of a British pansy. :D

OKAY, I actually love this chapter. Like, really really love it. (It might be because Allen is almost redeeming himself in my eyes, and Kanda is getting over himself, and Lavi's kind of opening up.)

I hope the football scene was okay—action isn't my specialty, but I'll keep on trying until I get it right. :D

Concerning Lavi's Jewdom: It will be covered further in the story, because Emiggax is KICKASS. :D It's a major point, you better believe it. We also know a limited amount of things pertaining to Kosher and what is allowed to be eaten, but I DID ask a Jewish friend (who is in college) about such matters, of which he answered that ice cream was _okay_, but not recommended. And burgers are out of the question, because they aren't exactly Kosher material. I also read up a little, but that's a lot of research that I don't feel like reiterating. Wikipedia might know, though. :D

There are, like, three Hall and Oates references in the text—find all three and get a minor prize. :D We be poor, you must understand.

OH, and speaking of Hall and Oates, I must tell you all this terrible joke of mine. (I couldn't tell Emi because it's so fucking lame.) So, I'm in my AP US History class, right? The teacher is talking about Roosevelt and some crap about his big stick, and I'm writing it down. But, I write it in a way so that it's parodying the song 'Method of Modern Love', and I also sketched pictures of Daryl Hall and John Oates around the paper. A friend of mine leans over to my desk, and she stares at my notes.  
"What the hell?" she asks with a cocked eyebrow. "What is that shit?"  
I grinned. "It's my _Hall and Notes_!"  
Oh god, I could almost hear the 'Ba-dum-chink!' in my head. And, three hours later, when I walked into my front door, I sat on the couch and _laughed my ass off_. Because I laugh at my own lame jokes, like a jackass.

Okay, okay, I'm done. :'D I'll be trying to update earlier next time…even without FFN's personal problems that must intercede with my life. Seriously, that was a asshole move if I ever saw one—for _three days_, FFN? R U SRS?


	25. Shake It Up

_TWENTY-FIVE_

July 11th, 1985.

Lavi wondered, sometimes, what the hell went through Allen's mind. Sometimes, though. This is because other times he was too busy wondering how the hell did someone of the male gender fit into jeans at _least_ two sizes too small.

He liked the kid—he liked the kid a lot. Allen was the best thing to come into his life since, well, Yuu, but don't tell Yuu that. He'd blush and stutter a little, voice hitting a pitch higher than usual, if that was even _possible_—or was he thinking of Allen again?

Lavi rolled his eye. Either way, that was his motivation, his motif, his reasoning.

That was why he stood in front of the door, hand poised in knocking action.

_Please, let the Brit be here_, he thought with a smile that was so wide it kind of hurt. Like, really hurt, actually. He rapped his fists on the door a few times in some well-known rhythm, his other hand tucked in his jean pocket.

Then, the redhead waited.

After a few minutes of loud cursing and words that Yuu couldn't even attempt to beat after a guitar string broke, the door swung open.

Hazel eyes gazed at him from behind half-mooned spectacles. "…Oh," Cross muttered, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. "It's you."

"Yep, sir," Lavi greeted jokingly, waving a hand jauntily. "It's just me, the Lavi. Aren't you happy to see me?"

Cross blinked in a way that showed he wasn't really listening and that he was totally smashed at this point in his day. "The brat ain't here," he said, jabbing a thumb towards the interior of the house. "I sent him grocery shopping, like, minutes or hours ago. Wait, did I send him yesterday?" The man furrowed his eyebrows in thought, frowning. "Did he not fucking come back? Is he trying to run away? Goddammit, if I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times—you _can't_ get on a plane to England without my signature, brat!"

Lavi blinked. But, _anyone_ could forge a signature, and a better reason to keep the boy here would be to say that he couldn't get on without an actual _adult_. "…" But, he did not say this aloud. "Yeah, I doubt he ran away. He loves me too much." He grinned, rubbing his chin. "Then again, so does everyone else. It's hard being me, lemme yell ya."

Cross stared at him. "…you know what," he muttered, moving out of the way so Lavi could come into the house. "I really like you, boy. I really like you a lot."

The eighteen-year-old nodded slowly, walking slowly past the unpredictable drunken man. "Uh _huh_," he replied. Once he entered the abnormally retro decorated interior of the house, Timcanpy poked his yellow head over the couch with a toothy grin.

"Woof!" he barked, scrambling off the couch to properly greet one of his _favorite_ friends, and it was with much licking and Eskimo kisses with his wet nose.

Lavi was only slightly disturbed that the dog was big enough to reach his chin when he stood up on his hind legs. That dog had just been a small _puppy_ a few months ago—now he's all extra-big. It's really quite confusing, and more the reason why Lavi needs to know what the hell goes on in Allen's mind, because it's _got_ to be a hassle keeping a dog this big indoors.

The door had slammed, and the bespectacled man had wobbled unsteadily to the staircase, and he leaned heavily against the railing. "Yeah," he said, nodding. He eyed the teenager suspiciously. "Do you know _why_ I like you so much, boy?"

He didn't. But, he could at least guess. "Because I'm dead sexy?" Lavi tried, shrugging one shoulder in nonchalance. "It's totally understandable. I mean, when I look at myself in the mirror in the mornings, it's like—_whoa_, someone needs to dump some water on me, because _Christ_ I am hot." His overconfidence will one day get him metaphorically murdered, and he was so aware of it.

"You see, _that's_ why I like you." Cross said, smirking. "You're _confident—_you remind me of me. And, I _love_ myself."

That's _so_ ironic. "Yeah, I love myself too," the eighteen-year-old rubbed his nose with a grin. "Even though it'd totally be a trip if I had two eyes for use." He waggled his eyebrows, grinning. "You should know why."

Cross shook his head, bemused. "Yeah, yeah," he replied, feeling his goatee with long fingers. He then snapped his fingers in surprise. "There we go! I sent the kid grocery shopping…_two_ hours ago. He should be back in…Tim? When should the punk be back?"

The yellow dog sneezed a little, and he nuzzled closer to Lavi. Lavi honestly had no idea why Yuu freaked out around Timcanpy—the dog is _radical_!

"Shit," the red-haired man snapped his fingers in defeat. "The kid could be back in five minutes or fifty. I don't give a damn, really, as long as he gets my vodka."

"Vodka?" Lavi said aloud, although he didn't mean to. "He can _do_ that?" Damn, _he_ couldn't even do that, and he _looked_ his age.

"Hell _yeah_," the man looked oddly proud of himself. "The boy's an idiot, dresses like a woman, and fucks guys—but I'll be damned if he can't make it in life."

Lavi snickered. "Fuckin' A," he replied without much thought, but then he scratched behind his neck in embarrassment. "I mean—_effin' _A. Sorry, sir."

"I don't give a damn _what_ you say—just as long it's not about your late-night fucks with my nephew," Cross said, a look of acute disgust on his face. "There're some things that I just _don't_ need to hear."

Well, that was a nice thought—but it wasn't true, so it was getting annoying fast. "Yeah, uh, _sir_?" Lavi coughed into his fist. "Uh, look, I'm totally digging Al, but he doesn't dig me, so we're not fucking."

"If you aren't dating, then why the hell are you here?" Cross asked, crossing an eyebrow. He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Exactly. C'mon, boy. I already know, so don't try to pass me off for some yuppie with as many brains as a goldfish—or my nephew. Either works."

_I think I got something_! Lavi almost snapped his fingers at that, because the statement totally warranted it. He stuck his hands into his jean pockets, the fingers to his right hand playing around with a wrapped piece of candy within the pocket. "Well…" he grinned, eyebrows raised. "Can I ask a favor? Seeing as how you're so stuck on our…_relationship_ and all."

"…" the redhead reached into his own pocket, pulling out a thin cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth, between his white teeth. "What do you want?"

"Since you're Al's uncle and all—I can _totally_ see the family resemblance, by the way—I was just thinking…" Lavi trailed off, looking down in pseudo-bashfulness.

"Spit it out, boy."

"Okay, so I was just thinking…maybe you know how the Brit's mind works, so you could tell me a few things about him…" He looked back up with a devious green eye. "Or, you could find me someone—something—that does."

Cross stumbled a bit with his lighter, his current drunken state making the action of lighting his cigarette harder than usual. "Uh huh," he muttered, cocking an eyebrow. "So, like, a diary or something?"

Diary? Well, Lavi wasn't too sure about that, but why not? "Yeah, sure." The eighteen-year-old smiled, using his best con-artist impression. "So, whaddaya say, sir? Will you do me, Lavi, this one little favor?" He reached into his back pocket, patting his leather flap of a wallet. "I can make it worth your while, for sure."

"Hmm?" Cross straightened up, smoke trailing from the red end of his cigarette. "How much're you talkin' here?" he asked slowly.

"Twenty."

"Thirty," the bespectacled man blew smoke out of his nose, smirking. "I'll even throw in an excuse for why I'm in his goddamn room—I _hate that place_." Cross gritted his teeth. "When he graduates, I'm turning his room into a fucking…_bar_ or something."

"Okay, thirty." Lavi pulled out his wallet, opening the flap. "So, when'll I get this diary or whatever it is?" he asked idly as he sifted through the green bills.

"Come back tomorrow, same time." Cross replied, blinking as his vision slightly blotted. "You'll get it."

"Ace!" Lavi grinned. "Pencil me in for tomorrow, sir, because I'll be back, and on the dot." He held out a few greenbacks, which Cross just about snatched from his hand. "And, you might wanna lay down."

Cross looked at him. "Why're sayin' that?" he said with a vague slur.

"Because you are fucking _smashed_, sir." Lavi flipped off a fake salute. "Peace out, and later days!" He walked back to the door, taking the time to ruffle Timcanpy's ears before opening the door and stepping outside.

"Pah," Cross snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. He walked to the couch, legs stumbling everywhere. "I'm not drunk. Not even close—I don't _get_ drunk. Ain't that right, Tim?"

Timcanpy replied to him with a simple look, honey golden eyes expressing his feelings much better than illegible barks could.

The red-haired man looked offended. "You've been spending too much time with the brat."

The yellow dog panted, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Woof."

----

If there was anything Cross hated more than his college years, it was probably tequila and his nephew's godforsaken room. The two had nothing in common, but he despised them both the same.

"Shit," he cursed, stumbling back away from the mace on the ground. He furrowed his eyebrows, looking around the room. "Seriously, what kind of kid _has_ this kind of fucking stuff?" And, he was just talking about the crap that looked like the boy robbed a Renaissance Faire.

He stepped over a pile of books on the ground (which were pertaining to exorcisms and the various theories of war) and reached over to the dark bookshelf. The man placed a hand on the well-dusted top of the wood, and he bent down to his knees. Truthfully, Cross wasn't too sure on where a thirteen-year-old girl would keep a diary, but he could probably guess.

"_The Chocolate War_," he read the titles aloud, running a long finger down the spines of the books on the shelf. "_Lord of the Flies, The Jungle, Nineteen Eighty-Four_…bunch of gay shit."

Then, he finger hit the metallic spiral spine of a notebook. "Finally," Cross grumbled, pulling it out. "Little girls should keep their diaries in better places, brat."

It was a dark notebook, the front decorated with stickers of The Cure, Generation X, and a few other English rock bands that Cross hated. He was positive it was a diary of some sort, though, because a silver strip of duct tape kept it shut and unable to be immediately opened.

Cross picked at the tape, curious on what was written within those lined pages. (Although, he was so sure it was a long list of men the brat had sex with, and which one was most compatible with him for the future of being his sugar daddy.)

Unfortunately, though, disaster struck. "Uncle!" was the thickly accented shout from the first floor. "They didn't have vodka, oddly enough, so I had to get you the tequila. Hope you don't mind!" The front door was slammed shut, and even from his place upstairs, Cross could hear the telltale sound of an aged vehicle screeching down the street.

"Aw, shit," he cursed, hazel eyes roaming around the room for any verifiable excuse.

Allen was getting closer—like, much closer, and fast. "Uncle? Where are you?" he called. "Your car is in the driveway, so I _know_ you didn't go anywh—wait, _Tim_? Why're you just…sitting there?"

"Woof," Timcanpy replied, and Cross almost smacked his forehead in exasperation. He hired the dog to keep the boy _out_, and, goddammit, he wasn't doing his job properly.

The door swung open. "Uncle?" Allen spoke softly, white-haired head peeking around the doorway. He spotted Cross on the floor in front of his bookshelf, and he couldn't help but raise a slow eyebrow. "…Why the _blast_ are you in my room?"

Damn it. Cross stuck the notebook in his shirt, conspicuously, and then threw some books on the ground. After that, he started moving around the action figures—or Barbie dolls, since they looked pretty lame—and picking up miscellaneous items, just to piss the brat off.

"Why are you touching my _stuff_?!" Allen demanded, obviously affronted.

"You're on drugs," Cross replied with ease, still touching stuff for the sake of touching it. "I know you are, boy. I can smell it on your faggo' clothes."

The white-haired boy faltered. "I'm terribly sorry, but _what_?" he asked in a voice a few octaves higher than usual. "What do you mean you can smell it—" He froze, an expression of disgust overtaking his face. "_Kanda._"

Who was Kanda, again? Cross shrugged, standing up shakily. It was probably another one of the brat's gayfriends. He thought he was on to something when he was raising the boy, so where did he go wrong, anyway? He could only blame the brat's father—god bless his soul.

"I'll find those drugs," the bespectacled man threatened, stepping up to his young nephew. "When I do…" Well, he never actually thought this far. "…you'll be grounded?"

"…" Allen held a hand to his temple, sighing. "I'm not doing drugs, twit."

_Bullshit._ "It's 1985," Cross replied, cocking an incredulous eyebrow. "How can you _not_ be on drugs?"

"It's very simple," the British teenager said, a terse smile on his lips. "I just don't. Now," he stepped to the side, holding an arm out towards the door in an extravagant manner. "Feel free to get out of my room. I must clean up because of your arseholery."

Cross blinked. _Arseholery._ That was a new one—with an American touch, too. Maybe something really was getting through to him. "Whatever," he replied, placing a hand on the top of the boy's unnaturally soft white hair and ruffling it. "Druggie."

Allen batted at his hand, huffing with a smile. "Am not, so shut up."

----

"Excuse me," Allen started as he walked into the kitchen. "But, have you seen my journal?"

Cross looked over at him, the rim of his glass to his lips. Inside, though, he was gagging, because _holy shit_ he hates tequila. "No," he replied, shrugging.

But, Allen wouldn't let it go. "Are you sure?" he asked, hands on his hips. "It's a dark gray notebook with stickers. I know it sounds rather ponce, but I need to find it.

"Who the fuck says _ponce_ these days?" Cross demanded, the sad excuse for alcohol sloshing within the glass cup as he moved his arm around in annoyance.

"I do, clearly."

"Fag." The red-haired man coughed a little, the tequila burning against his throat. "I haven't seen your journal-diary-thing, so quit being a bitch about it."

Allen rolled his eyes. "You're such a help," he muttered sarcastically.

Cross shrugged. "If you say so," he replied. The refrigerator was opened, and he perked up at the sound. "You're gonna make my dinner now?"

"Why would I do that?" the teenager replied, looking through the newly placed groceries in the cool air of the interior of the refrigerator.

"Hmph." Cross poured more tequila into his glass. "I'm just saying. If you're going to dress like a woman, you should act like one too."

Allen sniffed, reaching for a large package of lettuce. "Why couldn't you just answer with 'Because I'm hungry?'" he asked. "Womanizing prick."

Cross rolled his eyes. "Because I'm hungry."

"Much better."

----

July 12th, 1985.

It was, like, broiling hot outside.

Lavi knew, since he stood out in front of Allen's door as the sun beat down on him like Ike Turner with Tina.

The redhead had even taken the loving consideration of the heat and practically chopped a pair of his favorite jeans into calf-length shorts. A tear had fallen down his face when he did it, too.

Lavi knocked on the door. "Hey," he called. "It's totally cool if you don't open up, but it's even more choice if you did right about now." He brought his hand to his forehead and wiped at his brow underneath his folded bandana, because it was _sweltering_.

With the click of a lock, the door was slowly opened, and Allen poked his head around the frame.

"Hullo, Lavi," he greeted with a smile, opening the door further. "All right?"

"All right?" Lavi repeated, and then he laughed. "Oh, you're asking if I'm _all right_! Yeah, I'm stellar—and you, babe?"

"Don't call me 'babe,'" Allen automatically replied, grinning. "But, I'm just jolly." He cocked an eyebrow. "So, why're you here?"

The redhead sniffed, hands in his pockets. "Can't I just come to see you?" he whined. "I mean, that's what people in love do—they see each other and all that shit."

"_Aww_," Allen replied, pulling a false look of adoration. "You are so sweet—" He snorted. "But we aren't in love, and I doubt you want to take me out to lunch right now."

Leave it to the British to mess up a perfectly good excuse. "You got me there," Lavi replied, holding up a hand in surrender. "I'm here to see your uncle."

"_Cross_?" That was quick to make the fifteen-year-old boy straighten up, expression disbelieving. "Why would you want to see _Cross_?"

"I'm…" Lavi waved a hand around, clicking his tongue in thought. "I'm doing _errands_ for him. Yeah."

"Errands." Allen didn't seem to believe him, but he moved out of the way anyway. "Well, come in. You've got to be dying out there, Lavi!"

"Oh, most definitely," the redhead replied with a grin, stepping inside and reveling in the cool air that was probably the fan in the living room. "So, yeah, where's your uncle?"

"He isn't here," Allen said, shrugging and shutting the door. "Did you not see his stupid car missing from the driveway?" He gritted his teeth. "One day, I will slash his tires."

"I wasn't thinking," Lavi admitted, fixing his bandana on his forehead. "It's so hot out there, and thought is, like, unobtainable or something."

"You do have a point," the white-haired boy replied, walking past him to the kitchen. He waved Lavi over, and the older teenager almost missed it because he really wished Allen's backside was a subject in high school, so he could've gotten another 'A'. "You can sit down if you'd like."

"Oh, right," Lavi looked sheepish as he plopped into a wooden chair. "Well, do you know if Cross left something for me?"

Allen looked over at him, arms crossed. "What kind of errand is this?" he asked suspiciously. "Because it's sounding more and more like a drug run the more you talk."

The one-eyed teenager held up his hands in a placating gesture. "It's not a drug run," he promised. "I came by yesterday and he said he needed help with—" Here, he paused, because he needed a _really_ good excuse. "—his taxes."

"Hmph, Jew," the British boy teased. "Honestly, his _taxes_? Please, tell me more."

"Yeah, his taxes. I can also write scripts and speeches, and I can sell things at retail prices," Lavi replied, smiling. "But, seriously, did he leave anything for me? Like, a folder or an envelope or something?"

"He did." Allen said, nodding.

Lavi blinked. "Then…why didn't you just tell me that in the beginning?" he asked slowly.

"Because I wanted to know what was in the envelope," the younger teenager replied honestly, grinning. "I mean, I can't just open the bloody envelope—so I went with the next best approach."

If he didn't love Allen before, he was just about ready to _marry_ the sneaky zeek, without the divorce. "Holy shit," Lavi muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "You got _me_ in the face."

"I usually do." Allen walked around the table, patting Lavi's head on his way past the older teenager. "I'll be back with your envelope in a moment. Feel free to get a drink that is not alcohol and to eat foods that are not sweets." He walked out of the kitchen at that.

Lavi hummed lowly in his throat, tapping a finger on the tabletop to an unheard rhythm. That was probably one of the best parts of being a drummer—a person gets more of the beat in their veins than blood.

Over the sink, a clock ticked away.

The redhead couldn't help but notice that it was wrong. According to his watch, it was 3:37, but the large analog clock insisted that it was instead 7:28.

"Hmm…" Lavi hummed, standing up with a stretch. "Al shouldn't mind if I change it." He couldn't just _let_ the clock sit there and not be right, even if it did make him look like some sort of obsessive-compulsive freak.

Lavi walked to the sink, reaching up and taking down the round clock. "This thing hasn't been changed in years!" he muttered, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Crazy." He worked on winding the time, foot tapping on the ground in his rhythm again.

"Sorry it took me so long," Allen started as he walked back into the kitchen, and he paused at the sight of Lavi. "Why are you changing my clock?"

The one-eyed teenager looked at him, grinning. "Because it was wrong. _Doy_."

"Well, thank you." Allen huffed. "I've been trying to get my uncle or Timcanpy to do it for me for a while now, but neither of them went out of their ways to get out of their seats to do it."

Why Timcanpy? "Why can't you change it?"

"You wouldn't understand," the British teenager replied, sadly looking at his wristwatch. "Even _I_ don't understand my terrible luck with time."

"It's all good," Lavi said laughingly, placing the clock back in its original spot. He turned around, hands on his denim-clad hips. "So, where's my envelope?"

Allen tossed him a manila envelope, rolling his eyes. "I hope you have a jolly great time," he said with a grin. "Those taxes are going to be _rough_."

"Just like me if you'd give me one night?" Lavi asked, and ducked a well-aimed smack. "Moded! Okay, okay, I'm kidding, Brit!" He held up his hands in surrender, envelope tucked underneath an arm.

"See you later tonight," Allen replied, waving as he walked by him. "Lunch is at eight today."

Lavi just about tripped on his shoelaces at that.

He just can't win with the kid—and he's really okay with that.

----

July 14th, 1985.

Allen really did wonder where the bloody hell his journal ran off to.

"Timcanpy!" he called, arms crossed and posture regal. "Where's my journal?"

"Woof!" was the somehow _annoyed_ reply, because apparently even dogs could get pissed off at the repetition of questions like so.

Allen narrowed his eyes. "One day," he muttered, turning around. "I'll find my missing journal, and if you're the culprit…" He never thought this far himself, pausing. "…I'll ground you?"

"Hurf," Timcanpy huffed, yawning as he changed positions in his lounging position on the loveseat in the living room.

"Hmph." The British boy sighed. That journal wasn't even that _personal_, but it held a vital list of things about the house that needed to be fixed, because he had struck a nice deal (in _almost_ legal ways, at that) with a repairman, who knew a gardener and a painter. The tape was there just so Timcanpy wouldn't chew at pages, like he did with his copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.

His train of thought was cut short by the sound of a knock on his door, and the boy walked over to the door to peek through the eyehole.

A tanned hand waved back at him.

"Lavi?" he muttered aloud as he opened the door. The British boy smiled, though, in delight. "Lavi! How do you do, today?"

"Just dandy, Brit," Lavi replied jauntily, flipping off a fake salute. His other arm was hidden behind his back, and the redhead grinned. "Ready for band practice?"

"Well, surely." Allen cocked an eyebrow. "You act as though there is some other source of entertainment in this country."

"Dude, just because America—" Lavi paused, scratching underneath his bandana. "—okay, maybe we are a little out there, but still!" He brought out his arm, and in his hands was a rather colorful bouquet of spring flowers—even though it was the summer. "So, yeah, I brought you something."

Allen took one look at the bouquet and almost immediately took a step back, hand on the door knob. "Did Mikk put you up to this?" he demanded, voice bland and face deadpan. "Because if he did, I really will punch you. In your one good eye."

Lavi blinked. "No!" he exclaimed. "I'd be dead in my grave before I'd do something for _Los Assholé de Mexicó_."

"Then, what the…" Allen motioned towards the flowers with an odd expression. "…the bloody hell is _this_?"

"Um." The one-eyed teenager coughed into his free fist. "It's for you?"

Allen paused in his prepared tirade. "For me?" he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "…hmm." He took the bouquet, bringing it to his face and inhaling the engaging scent.

Lavi laughed, relief evident in his mirth. "Yeah, like," he started, threading his fingers through his thick hair. "A birdie might've dropped a line that you were sweet for flowers."

The British boy sneezed suddenly, a pale hand covering his mouth and nose. There was a look of panic on his reddening face, and he sneezed again.

And, Lavi had the feeling that, well, he _done wrong_. "Bless you, Brit?"

"Thank you," was the automatic reply, albeit very nasally and thick. "Please, tell me," Oh God, the _accent_, too? Lavi was going to have a tough time understanding the kid now. "What is in this…_bouquet_?"

The redhead furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "It was some sort of choice spring fling thing," he replied. "Even thought it's July and shit."

"The flowers, Lavi," Allen said, sniffling deeply. "I need the gen on the bloody _flowers_!"

"Okay, Al," Lavi held out his hands in surrender. "Don't have a cow. So, it's got carnations, daisies, larkspurs, marigolds, pansies, snapdragons—tried to get some roses in, but they were all 'lame-o' and I was like, no way, it would be ace! Because it totally would be, and they were—"

Allen snapped his head up, hand still over his lower face. "Did you say _pansies_?" he asked slowly.

"Yep," the drummer affirmed. "Carnations, daisies, larkspurs, marigolds, pansies, snapdragons, and we can pretend there're some roses in there—"

"You—!" the British boy sneezed again, and he closed his eyes. "I am…" He removed his hand, revealing a bright red nose and his eyes were pretty colored as well. "I am _allergic_ to pansies. Ach!" He sneezed once more.

"Oh." Lavi stuck his hands in his pockets. "Man, I am _so sorry_—like, _cereal_, I didn't mean to kill you."

"I'm not dead," Allen replied in his new nasal tone of voice. "I'll be fine in a few hours." He smiled, although the red nose really messed up the whole 'I'm not pissed at you' image.

"I feel _so bad_ though…" the redhead insisted, scratching underneath his bandana. "Dude, I'll make it up to you. I'll, uh, I'll buy you lunch or something."

"You do realize that this is a given, correct?" the white-haired boy grinned, sniffling again. "It's really okay, I'll be fine. Now," he stepped farther into his house. "Why don't we go to Miss Lee's house together?"

Lavi looked up at him, still very guilty. A smile twitched on his face. "Cool," he replied, coming inside. "I'd like that."

----

"Why the red nose, Rudolph?" Kanda asked, pinching the younger teenager's aforementioned red nose. "You know Santa doesn't like Europeans, right?"

"Clear off!" Allen smacked at his hand. "I don't believe in Santa Claus anyway."

"Che'yeah _right_," the Japanese guitarist rolled his eyes. "You don't even sound like you believe yourself, Zeek Freak." He cocked an eyebrow. "But, for sure, why the nose and the gayer accent than usual? You sick, or something?"

Allen waved a hand in dismissal. "It's just allergies," he replied, smiling. "I'll be in tip-top shape in an hour or two. Right, Lavi?"

"_Ugh_," the redhead groaned, hitting his forehead on the cymbals with a resounding clash. "Dude, don't make it bleed more—I'm _hurtin'_ inside, like Johnny Cash and his Ring o' Fire."

"Huh." Kanda held a hand to his mouth and yawned, eyes closed. "Either way, I'm guessing Cyclops has a new song that we need to practice, because Lenalee will pitch a fucking _fit_ if he was too busy mashing with a nine-year-old."

"I'm _fifteen_, Kanda," Allen retorted, sighing. He sniffled a little, rubbing his nose. "Well, I'd guess that you'd have to ask Lavi about that, since he keeps them in his special notebook—"

"Don't make me feel worse!" Lavi whined.

"—and such," the pianist finished, giving the redhead a weird look. "By the way, where is Lenalee?"

"She's applying her make-up." Kanda replied, shrugging.

"…" Allen cocked an eyebrow. "And, you aren't with her, _because_?"

"One day, I will kick your ass," the long-haired teenager threatened, poking the boy in the chest with an accusing finger. The garage door opened, and the singer of their band trotted down the short flight of stairs. "When that day comes, you won't be walking for _days_."

Lenalee frowned. "Wait, _what_?" she asked, an odd expression on her face. "You're already pass third base? But, Red isn't even near second!"

"Guilt!" Lavi cried, tapping a hand against the right tom drum.

"What?" the Chinese girl repeated, finding herself rather confused about what was going on at the moment.

"It's _okay_," Allen said, smiling. "I'm not dying, so you don't have to feel guilty!"

Kanda snorted. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "Your face makes me feel guilty for God, because he broke the record on ugly when you were born."

"You don't mean that," Allen replied, patting the older teenager's shoulder with a grin. "In fact, I bet you even _like_ me."

"Huh!" the Japanese teenager snorted. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Lenalee leaned over, grinning. "He totally likes you," she whispered.

Kanda glared. "I can totally hear you, too," he snapped.

She laughed, flicking a finger at his forehead. "You're so crushing on Al," she teased, hopping back as the nineteen-year-old made a threatening step forward. "If you really didn't, you would punch Al!" She hid behind the younger boy, as though to show her point.

"Hey!" Allen cried, holding up his hands. "Calm down, Marlon Brando!"

"Marlon _Brando_?" Kanda repeated, pausing. "What the fuck—" An arm wrapped around his neck, and he stumbled back a bit in surprise.

"Take 'em down now!" Lavi exclaimed. "I can't hold him back much longer!" He tightened his grip. "This is my way of beggin' for forgiveness, because I still feel so fucking _bogus_." He faked a sniffle.

"I will push you off a cliff—" the Japanese teenager was threatening all the while, thrashing in the redhead's hold. "—then I'll fucking burn your house down!"

Allen looked at Lenalee, who gave him a thumb up.

"This is gonna sound _so_ faggy," she said, smiling brightly. "But, we should tickle him!"

"_Tickle_?" the white-haired boy looked at the struggling Kanda, and he grinned. "Count me in."

"I'll fuck both of you up!" Kanda snapped, very angry at this point. "Don't try me, Punk and Joanie!"

His tirade was cut short, though, because the two youngest band members attacked him in the worst way possible.

* * *

This is the shortest chapter I have done in a while, and I blame my cold. D: I've been sneezing and sniffling and groaning and coughing and generally dying for the past three days. D: It doesn't help that I'm super stressed over the SAT and GHSGT and all that shit (so, if the chapter comes across as terrible, it's because I'm not feeling my best).

But, even if I'm not feeling my best, I'm still giving my best. :D I enjoyed this chapter a lot, especially Lavi and Allen and British Pansies (I love the way actual people from the UK dub themselves that when sending me a PM or something)(lol Miss Souba).

Emi, once again, has OUT-GENIUSED me by completely renovating the ending and giving us more to work with throughout the school semester for the band in August and further on. Battle of the Bands is soon, so HELL YEAH TYKI By the way, Emi is seriously happy that there are people out there that acknowledge her existence, and imagination HELPS HER GROW :D

Lol we'll be at Momocon this weekend, just in case anyone is interested. :D I'm a Team Rocket grunt, and she's a Flareon. HIT HER WITH YER POKEMANZ :D

Miss Israfel, we will put forth a great effort to see what we can do about that showing. :3 It's a great idea, that's fer sure.


	26. Uptown Girl

_TWENTY-SIX_

"Kan_da_," Lenalee whined, pouting. "We can't practice to the max when you're, like, outside!"

Kanda narrowed his eyes. "That's too fucking bad," he replied in a raspy voice, tugging at the cord to the amplifier and plugging it into his guitar. "I'm not coming back inside the fucking garage until the brat says sorry."

"What?" Allen looked offended. "But, I wasn't the only one who tickled you!"

"So what?" the Japanese teen pulled up his shirt to the detailed edge of his chest, pointing at a thick red line of agitated skin on his fit stomach. "You fucked me up, brat. I'm bleeding here, dying and shit—and I don't even have a _band-aid_." He glared. "I can't get a fucking 'sorry,' even though you crippled me?"

Allen rolled his eyes. "It is just a _scratch_," he replied, and he was actually being literal. He sniffed, rubbing at his still red nose. "Being an ickle baby only makes me doubt your intelligence—oh, dear, I'm a little too late, aren't I?" He looked at Lenalee with false concern, holding his wrinkled red hand to his lips.

"Say sorry!" Kanda snapped, shouldering the strap for Mugen. "I will make this practice a living hell for you, Lenalee, Cyclops, Lenalee's Creepy Brother, and this entire fucking _neighborhood_ if you don't apologize."

Lavi winced. "Why me?" he complained. "What'd I do?"

"What _didn't_ you do?" Allen retorted, crossing his arms. He sniffed, sitting behind his synthesizer and crossing his legs. "Do your worst, prick," he said to Kanda, face tilted up in a challenge. "I won't apologize for having fun."

"Yeah!" Lenalee agreed. "I mean, you were kind of laughing—kind of. Coughing still counts, right?"

"Dude, he was almost coughing up _blood_," Lavi replied, trying to hide his grin by rubbing his chin. "That is how hard he was laughing. I'd have to say he _liked_ it, the hoser. Ain't that right, Jap?"

"You all asked for it," Kanda growled, pointing a finger threateningly. He placed a mud-caked Converse sneaker on the amplifier and turned the volume knob to, apparently, near maximum. "Say sorry now, and maybe I won't do it."

The British teenager smiled. "Give me your _best shot_," Allen purred, raising his eyebrows.

Kanda shrugged, and he plucked at the C-string. The sound reverberated loudly in the generally quiet neighborhood.

Lenalee paused. "Oh, _shit_," she cursed, bringing her hands to her ears and clasping her palms tightly over them. "Maybe you should've said sorry!"

"Why?" Allen asked.

"Dude, I am already _half-deaf_," Lavi cried, mimicking the singer's movements. "You're a right skeezer, Yuu!"

Allen had no idea why they were complaining, as he saw Kanda as no threat. To him, the older teenager was just a tall, talented, abnormally attractive guitarist with a filthy mouth and a lack of a brain, and he was the most fun anyone could ever have in this world.

"Hey!" Kanda shouted out to the general world as Allen could only assume. "I want to dedicate this song to the British—because they are just like it!" And, he proceeded to mutilate every single note he might've known, choosing to strum the guitar in an erratic and rhythm-lacking manner.

The white-haired boy's hands flew to his ears, and he frowned. "Are you _barmy_?" he demanded loudly, but his voice couldn't beat the sheer _sound_ of Kanda's terrible guitar playing. "Why are you doing this?!"

"Can't hear you!" Kanda shouted back, adjusting his guitar for better positioning. His fingers moved rapidly over the strings, and it was then that Allen realized that the Japanese man is actually a _really_ great guitarist—even when he's being bad on purpose.

"Stop it!" Allen exclaimed, eyebrows furrowed. "You're being a right embarrassment, twit!"

"What's that?" Kanda replied loudly, smirking. "You want me to play louder?" He snickered. "All right, I usually don't take requests—but you know how I love the Eurofags," the sarcasm was thick, and he somehow managed to up the volume.

A cat yowled loudly in pain, and the British boy knew he had to put a stop to this, with his pride be damned.

"I am _sorry_!" he shouted, wincing as an electric B note screeched out and somehow infiltrated his auditory senses. "I _mean it_!"

The terrible guitar playing came to a stop, and Kanda blew at his fingers as though they were trailing smoke. "Accepted," he replied, his smirk widening.

Lenalee removed her hands from her ears. "If they call the police on Komui," she threatened. "I'll do something really whacked."

"Yeah, yeah," Kanda replied, yawning as he picked up his amplifier with one arm. "I wanted him to say sorry."

"Why do you _care_ so much?" the Chinese girl asked, hands on her hips. "I could've said sorry, too, you know!"

Lavi shook his head, pinching his nose and popping his ears on purpose. "Caring is sharing," he replied, grinning and standing up from behind his trap kit. "Don't bug out Yuu's care—it'll be gone in a snap!" He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

Allen tucked a few misplaced locks of hair behind his ears, rolling his eyes. "You're a prick," he said to Kanda, smiling.

Kanda flipped him the middle finger back, turning around to close the garage door. "And you're a nasally punk," he replied, dragging down the large metal door. "But, you don't see me complaining."

"Heh," Lavi leaned over to Allen, hand over his mouth as he whispered in his ear, "He doesn't complain as much as he should these days—especially when it's got the 411 to do with _you_."

"None of you losers can actually _whisper_," the Japanese guitarist snapped, running his fingers through his long hair. "I can hear every fucking _word_."

"When it's got to do with _you_," the redhead continued faux-whispering, grinning. "I can say any shit I want, and he won't care until I get about how much I'd like to fuc—" His sentence was stopped by a pale hand covering his mouth.

"_Shh_," Allen shushed, his smile twitching. "Is it so hard to keep your perverse fantasies to yourself?" He didn't even want to know who the one-eyed teenager was talking about.

"But, baby, its _fact_," Lavi whined. "I love you, my heart beats for you, my _drums_ beat for you, Yuu beats for you!"

Kanda did not look impressed. "If I can hear you, then you're gonna keep _talking_?" he said, disbelieving. "What kind of shit is that?"

Allen agreed wholeheartedly. "I'd rather you not die yet," he admitted. "After all, I consider you one of my best friends."

Lavi perked up. "You _do_?" he asked, eye wide. A grin lit up his face. "That's…that's ace! I had no i-fucking-dea!" He pumped a fist in the air, making a whoop of triumph. "I'm best friends with a Brit! Fuck yeah!"

"Shut up," Kanda groaned, rubbing at his temples. "Where the fuck does your energy come from?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know?" his friend replied, sticking out his tongue playfully.

Lenalee rolled her eyes. "I don't think anyone does want to know," she said, grinning. "Anyway, this is whole convo totally cool and, hey, we're finally getting those band dynamics that everyone keeps pushing on us, but—"

"Congratulations." Allen replied blandly. He looked at the nails to his pale hand, cocking an eyebrow. "Should we celebrate?"

"Hey." The singer pointed at him. "Shut it, or I'll really give Rhode your number."

"…" Allen blinked. "Who is Rhode, again?" Then, he covered his mouth, because Lenalee looked like he had just committed some sort of grand offense by not remembering who a person exactly is.

"She's Tyki's cousin," she said incredulously. "The guitarist for _Noah's Ark_—almost as kickass as Kanda, but not quite."

Kanda snorted. "Everyone is almost as fuckin' A as me," he commented. "But, not quite."

"'_Adversus solem ne loquitor_,'" Allen recited, huffing. "Keep it up, arsehole."

"Why the fuck do you _always_ have to say something to me?" Kanda demanded, glaring at the younger teenager. "I'd call you a police officer, but I don't think you have a fucking _warrant_."

"Damn." Lavi snapped his fingers subtly, coughing lowly in his throat.

"Why I _never_—" Allen started in a thick, nasally tirade, but Lenalee covered his mouth.

"Shut up," she stated with a roll of her eyes. The girl narrowed her eyes at Kanda. "You too, since nobody really wants to hear you and Al have, like, insult sex. Because that's what it seems like to me."

_Insult sex_, Allen thought in mortification, retracting his tongue from the preparation of the unsanitary and immature action of licking Lenalee's palm. _She just implied that I would have sex with…with Kanda!_ He pushed away the girl's hand, gagging.

"That's grodie," Kanda said blandly. "Why would you bang an insult?"

Allen looked at him in disbelief. "You can't bang an insult, nitwit!" he cried, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "An insult isn't _real_—it has no feelings!"

Kanda frowned. "Then, what would I be banging—"

"You would be banging _me_," the British teenager replied, rubbing his temples as though he was decades older than his true age. "I mean _really_." And, he realized what he was saying, and looked up, horrified. Then, the words started spilling out like a faulty faucet. "Oh, oh dear god, I did _not_ mean that! You don't have to bang _me_ as much as you can bang anyone you'd like! Just, as long as they exist, because insults are not real and therefore cannot be touched, but _I_ can be touched—oh, bloody hell, I've done it again!"

The other three band members stared at him. He felt a thin prickle at the back of his neck, and he gulped in preparation of his death at Kanda's calloused hands.

"Ha!" Lavi barked a laugh, leaning back. "I couldn't understand a damn thing you said, Brit. Speak'a de _American's_ English, can you relate?"

"Your nose is bright as hell," Kanda muttered, staring at the British boy's red tinted nose in wonder. "What the fuck kind of allergies do _you_ have? Because this is just juiced!"

"What?" Allen said, eyes wide. And, then he thanked his big Protestant God in the sky for his thick dialect and fast-talking panic attacks. _Thank you, Lord,_ he prayed mentally with a smile, and then he sneezed due to allergies.

"I totally heard you," Lenalee muttered, observing her nails with a grin. "You want a home run with Kanda, Al? Because you've got to step up to bat."

"I-I," was the stutter of a reply, and the white-haired teenager straightened up. He sniffled. "I—I'm not gay. Honestly, where do you get these assumptions?" He scoffed haughtily, hands on his hips.

Lenalee looked down at his pants (which were more fitted than any pair of jeans _she_ owned), then she looked at his shirt (which was also tight and had a bad habit of rising up to show off pale abdomen whenever the boy made any extra movement), and then she came back to his face, which was admittedly _pretty_. God, she wanted to _touch_ that wicked looking scar so badly.

"You're so right," she replied instead as a thinly concealed lie. "I mean, who would _ever_ think you're gay? That's, like, whacko!"

Allen frowned. "You're being sarcastic, aren't you?" he asked, sighing. "I'm really not gay. I'm _pretty sure_ I like girls." _Or something_, he thought, because he was truthfully lacking in most romance endeavors. (Tyki Mikk most definitely did not count—and neither did Kanda, with that thought.)

"_Pretty sure_," Lenalee repeated, rolling her eyes with a hint of passion. "Dude, just give it up. You're gay, and you've got two—three—guys who're hotter than fire for you." She huffed, envious. "You have more luck than _I_ do, hoser!" The singer flicked at his forehead, puffing her cheeks in disdain.

"Huh!" the British boy huffed, straightening up. "Well, I'll tell you now, I am—"

"Oh, shit," Lavi cursed, catching the attention of the arguing two. "I think we might want to start this practice any day now—Granddad is gonna tan my hide if I'm not back on the dot." He shrugged, sitting back down behind his drum kit.

Lenalee nodded. "He's got a point," she replied. "We _do_ need to start this practice, and we're not gonna let anymore disruptions get all in our way and stuff. Al, you can be gay on your own clock, but right now we're sharing time!"

"Oh _no_," Allen replied sadly. "I don't have a clock."

"Dude, shut up and sit down," Kanda snapped, quick tuning a string on his guitar. "We _don't care_."

The only thing that was keeping the white-haired boy from throwing the insult back at the idiot was the look he received from Lenalee, of which was implying something that he made clear was not true.

"I'm not gay," he muttered.

Lenalee snorted. "It's okay, I totally believe you. And!" She pointed at Lavi. "What do you have for the beat?"

----

July 18th, 1985.

"…_Noah's Ark_'s CD, '_Great Flood,_' has been so far been successful," a long-haired man with dark skin droned on, writing on various papers as he spoke. "And, with this popularity, your entrance at the _Battle of the Bands_ in Lithonia should be a smash, that is if you…"

It was kind of odd.

Tyki, lately, found himself more impatient and less willing to just sit down and listen. It was a change that was apparent in most of the band meetings he was forced to attend, and in all of the concerts where he had to meet people backstage and all that jazz.

Although, it was clear who he'd much rather meet backstage, and maybe somewhere that wasn't music-related—like a restaurant, or a theme park.

"Tyki," was the snap that made him metaphorically jump back to attention. "Are you _not_ listening to me?"

"No," the Portuguese man replied, yawning from between loose fingers. "I'm not listening to you. Sheryl, we've already had this convo—it doesn't get better or worst. Give me a break."

"Didn't I tell you not to call me that?" Sherman Camelot asked calmly, cocking an eyebrow.

"If you did," Tyki replied, crossing his legs lazily. "I wasn't listening. My bad."

David cackled from his spot on the loveseat draped over his younger brother. "Got 'em in the face!" he said, running his fingers through Jasdero's long blond hair. "Whattaya gonna do now, _Sher-man_?"

"Cherry won't do a thing," Jasdero interjected, grinning. The thread that weaved through his lip piercings loosened as he began to laugh. "Ole Mikky's never done a wrong thing in his life—'cause _Sher-man_ loves his ickle brutha' too much." He snickered again, leaning into his twin's touch. He perked a little, breathing slowly. "_Oh_, run it there _again_, Davie."

"You guys are _so_ fucking gay," Rhode groaned, rolling her eyes. She looked back down at her Etch-A-Sketch, shaking it to remove her original picture.

Sherman looked at her, frowning. "Sweetheart," he chastised, waggling a pen at her in disapproval. "Don't use profane words like that—it's really uncool."

"Cool out," Skin said, holding up a hand. "You sayin' '_uncool_' is some uncool shit. Aren't you in your thirties or forties or somethin'?"

"I'm thirty-nine, Skin," the man replied blandly. "I think I might know the definition of _cool_, since I did go to high school in the sixties."

It was almost funny in the way all the band members were alike, as a slow rise of laughter came from the congregation of _Noah's Ark_ members.

Lulu Bell covered her mouth, attempting to hide her snickers, and leaned over to Tyki. "I think your brother thinks he's crucial," she said in a slight Southern accent, amused.

Tyki smirked back, pressing his forehead against the blonde woman's. "Please," he replied, snickering. "He'd be deadly if he weren't, like, _Sheryl_." His best friend barked a laugh and smacked his arm, where he just flipped his hair in nonchalance.

"Hey," Sherman started, pointing his pen out. "Tyki, Lulu, Rhode, Skin, and Jasdonny. Feel free to shut it." He held a hand to his mouth in a manner of hiding his smile as the two twins squawked in indignation.

"_Jasdonny_, he says!" David said, offended. "Well, yank, let'us tell ya!"

"It's _JasDavi_," Jasdero continued, scowling. "Not bloody _Jasdorky_, Cherry!"

"You keep calling me 'Cherry,' Jasmine," Sherman replied, looking back down at his forms. "And I'll keep getting your name wrong as well."

"Well, I'll jus' give ya the ol' one, two!" the blond twin exclaimed, jumping up. David followed the movement, and they both held up a fist on opposite hands. "Come on, get up!"

"Dude, no," Rhode said, laughing. "He'll beat your ass—that's my dad!"

"Sweetheart…" the long-haired man groaned. "Don't use such crude language."

"_Don't use such crude language_," Tyki mimicked to Lulu, who twisted her face to mock Sherman's facial expression. "How cool is _that_?"

"So uncool," Lulu replied, arms crossed under her rather sizeable bust. "Leave it to Shirley to be a total dickweed—he went to school in the _sixties_ and wants to be cool."

"He'd be better off in a freezer," the Portuguese man said, holding out his hand in observing his cuticles. The two adults snickered together, and Sherman groaned.

"Why don't you two just hook up?" he asked sarcastically.

Tyki and Lulu both had the grace of toning down their disgust into bland expressions of wide eyes and frowning lips. "No," they replied simultaneously, and then Lulu snorted.

"He's a dweeb," she said, huffing. "He dresses like he's homeless on his free time—that's not even _bad_."

"She's not Allen," Tyki also included, nodding. "Totally wouldn't work out."

"…" Sherman clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disdain. "_Anyway_, I'm getting the feeling that we got off-topic." He fixed his golden eyes onto his younger brother, and smiled. "So, Tyki, what do _you_ think we should do?"

"Hmm?" Tyki looked up, blinking. "What are you talking about?"

"What I was saying before, love," the older man replied. "At the _Battle of the Bands_, it's probably inevitable that you guys'll be the most popular band there from Virginia—"

"I dunno…" Skin muttered. "The _Black Order_'s been idle and shit, but they still have a good bunch o' fans. We might have a little competition, Shakey."

"The _Black Order_…they are amateurs," Sherman stated, placing his pen on the desk. He interlaced his fingers and leaned his chin upon the bridge, smiling widely. "They're known in Hampton, barely, and perhaps someone might mention their name in Newport Beach—but, other than that, they're just a bunch of kids."

"Allen is _not_ a kid," Tyki retorted, frowning. He was ready to beat his brother down for talking shit like that about Allen('s band, but whatever).

The silence that fell into the room was stifling, and then there was the mildly insulting sound of someone smacking their forehead.

"Tyki," Skin bemoaned, dragging the hand down in a show of exasperation. "Allen, he's coo' 'n all, I like the kid—but he's still a _kid_. You're goin' straight to _Hell_ at this rate, man."

"Dude." Tyki smirked. "Don't _knock it_."

"Have you even _tried_ it?" the Southern man then stopped himself, because they have had this conversation many times before. "Jesus Christ."

"Leave the good Lord's son out of this," Sherman said offhandedly, rolling his eyes. The grin returned to his face, and wider than ever. "Besides, now I have more things to think about. Rhode!" He turned to his foster daughter, who was still playing with her Etch-A-Sketch. "You said that this _Allen Walker_ is good-looking, right?"

She paused, looking up at him. "Dude, dad, _no_," Rhode replied, expression mortified. "Get real! He is not _hot_—he is _beyond_ hot. He is, like, beautiful, or something better than _that_." Tyki nodded in immediate agreement.

"Huh!" Sherman cocked an eyebrow. "There's obviously something about him, since he's enamored at least two of the members of _Noah's Ark_. JasDick, what about his synth playing?"

David scowled. "JasDavi!" he whined. "It's not that bloody hard, twit!" He plopped back into his seat huffily, jacket falling off of his shoulders and exposing his dark skin barely covered by a tank top.

Jasdero followed, raking his bandaged fingers through his blond hair. "He's a great synth player," he admitted with a grin. "Also made us mad, didn't it, Davie?"

"Right as rain!" David laughed, his voice high-pitched and wince-worthy. "I was almos' jealous o' the runt—that small and plays like Beethoven with sound! God, we should'a kill't 'im."

"Sure should'a." They shared a wistful sigh at their lost kill, leaning into each other. Their fingers interlaced, and the twins smiled widely.

Tyki stared at them. "I am _so sure_ there are laws against your brother-brother fag love," he commented, rubbing his clean chin.

"And _we_ are _dead sure_ that they're laws 'gainst _your_ child molestation, Mikky Trick," the dark-haired twin replied, cocking a thin eyebrow.

"He's good-looking," Sherman said suddenly, snapping his fingers to catch their attention. "Plays an instrument to an acceptable degree…and, apparently, foreign, from what I've heard."

"He's from the UK," Tyki offered, smiling. He brought a hand to his lips, running an elegant finger over the outline of his lips in thought. "Not quite sure _where_, though."

"London, twat," Jasdero scoffed. "Lookit ya! Stalkin' a lil' kid and you don't even know where he's _from_."

"Hey, I already knew," Rhode muttered, then she made a small cheer in victory. She held out her Etch-A-Sketch to the twins. "I totally drew you guys as, like, one big lesbian."

David took the toy, looking at it with critical eyes. "…" And, he grinned. "Cor blimey! We are the _sex_, Jazzy!"

Jasdero looked at the screen. "Whoa! That's bloody _radical_!" They fretted over the aluminum art, pointing out their favorite parts with gusto.

But, the oldest man in the congregation wasn't done. "Hmm…" Sherman grinned again, and it was really beginning to creep Tyki the hell out. "What do _you_ guys think?"

"We can't see into your mind, Shirley," Lulu commented, rolling her blue eyes. "Try again, herb."

"At the _Battle of the Bands_," the man explained, his glee almost tangible around him. "Let the amateurs play—and let's see if we can get our favorite man to sponsor them. He's already interested, but he needs to see them in _person_."

"Uh _huh_…" Tyki replied, and he cocked an eyebrow. "I'd like to know what would _we_ get out of this, since we're under the label and all."

"If it goes like I'm imagining," Sherman replied, smile so wide that it should've hurt. "Then, the results should be pretty obvious."

----

Tyki seriously hated his brother, and was planning an elaborate death for the creep of a man for one of these days.

"_Funny how I find myself…_" the radio blared inside his car, and he tapped his finger unwillingly to the droning lyrical wiles of Talk Talk. "…_in love with you. If I could buy my reasoning…I would pay to lose_…"

The sleek vehicle pulled into the gas station lot, stopping beside a tank with an employed pumper leaning lazily beside it. The employee, a young man with a large grin and a beanie cap, perked up at the sight of him and his car.

"Hot _ride_," he murmured, scratching underneath his dark beanie cap. "Woo—makes me wanna get a real job and keep it, lemme tell ya!"

Tyki looked blandly at him. "Um _hmm_," he hummed back, cocking an eyebrow. "Uh, anyway," he peered at the nametag, frowning. "_Daisya_. I need a gas fill-up, and pronto. I've got things to do with my life."

Daisya didn't seem to be very offended. "Aww," he cooed, grinning. "You sound _just_ like my younger brother—even with the totally whack lines about how weird my name is!"

_Um._ Tyki never said anything about his name. "Right," he replied, cocking an eyebrow. "Well, uh, you can start pumping my gas anytime now."

"I'm not gay, but sure," Daisya cackled, running his hands over his coveralls in hopes of making himself more presentable for touching his precious car. "What kind'a gas, sir?"

"Premium, please." At least he said _please_.

The attendant nodded, moving to the gas pump with energy coursing through his every step. Tyki almost envied the man's obviously easygoing persona, but then he remembered that he was a rockstar—and that he had a kickass car.

"_It's my life!_" the radio cried, making the Portuguese man almost jump in surprise. This song was still playing? "_Don't you forget! It's my life—it never ends!_"

"It never ends!" Daisya sung along, laughing at his scratchy baritone. He knew he was no opera star, that was for sure. "God, I love Talk Talk, man!"

"That's beautiful," Tyki replied blandly, rolling his eyes. He brought his hand to the radio and pressed a button, changing the station.

"—_keepin' it cool in July, 1985—its K.104.1 radiooo!_" a radio DJ shouted. "_It's DJ Sixty-Five, here, and I'm playin' the hottest—and not the Hampton weather, hoo boy—hits on your radio! From a CD!_" The DJ let out an exuberant whoop. "_Holy shit, this thing uses _lasers_! It's that excellent or what?!_"

Tyki looked into his rearview mirror, observing the man as he pumped the gas from the nozzle into his car. _Why the hell was the man so happy_, he mused to himself as his speakers began to throb a heavy bassline.

"_In the moonlight…_" Daryl Hall sung languidly, and Tyki had to frown at his radio's sudden bad taste in music. "_Under starlight…_"

He changed the station again, sighing. "—_Und er lebte in der großen Stadt, es war Wien, war Vienna! Wo er alles tat_," and those were the sweet sounds of Falco. Feel free to note his sarcasm. "_Doch ihn liebten alle Frauen—Und jede rief: Come on and rock me Amadeus_!"

"Amadeus, Amadeus!" Daisya sung along again. Tyki believed that he had the potential of a great entertainer, with his scratchy voice and large smile. "Hey, sir, don't change the radio this time, _pleaseee_?" He drug out the syllable, whining.

"Aren't you done pumping?" Tyki demanded calmly. He did not change the radio, though, because he hated to hear grown men whine. Having an older brother like Sherman tended to wear on one after a few twenty-six years.

"Just about. Amadeus!" the pale man snickered as he looked up at the slow numbers on the pump. "Aaand…that's the ticket! You're done here!"

The dark-skinned man nodded. "How much?"

"Twenty-two bucks," Daisya replied.

"And my tank _is_ full, right?"

"Doy, sir. I don't work on bogus." The young man replaced the nozzle into the pump, and he stretched. "All right!"

Tyki reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening the flap. He pulled out two tens and some ones, then held them out to the pale man. "Here you go," he said. "Feel free to keep the change."

"Thanks, man!" Daisya took the money, grinning.

The Firebird rolled forward, away from the gas pump, and Tyki was getting a little pissed at Falco's addicting yet foreign lyrics. He'll have to learn German, because whatever an "_exaltiert_" was, he needed to know.

"—hey!" was the call behind him, and he peered at the rearview mirror once more. Daisya was running towards him, waving the money in his hands in a panicked manner. "Sir! You gave me forty-seven bucks!"

Forty-_seven_? Damn, that was a lot of money. "I told you to keep the change!" Tyki retorted, poking his head out the car window.

"Dude—sir! This isn't change!" Daisya cried, slowing down, and holding a gloved hand to his chest. "This is, like, my fucking check! I can't just take your cash like this, man!"

God, Tyki hated martyrs. He rolled his eyes, and placed his hand on the gear. "Fine," he said to himself. "I'll take the goddamn money back!" The gear was shifted into reverse, and he slammed his foot down on the gas. He looked into the rearview mirror—_again_—and then let out a dictionary of curses in his native language. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?!" he snapped, trying to hit the brakes, but found he couldn't move fast enough.

The pale man was frozen in shock, hand still clutching his chest. With a rather terrible cry of pain, the fender of the Firebird slammed into his abdominal area—and he slumped to the ground, hitting his head against the gray concrete.

Tyki finally put his car in park and just about fell out trying to get to the young man.

"…" He stood over Daisya, and winced as a slow line of blood slid out of the man's mouth. The Portuguese man patted his pockets and found what he was looking for. "This can't be good," he muttered, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers that exposed his nervousness.

----

July 19th, 1985.

It was about one in the morning—according to Allen's fantastic newly changed clock—when Cross grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of bed. He practically threw the teenager on the ground and tapped his foot against the carpet in impatient annoyance.

"What the blast—" the boy started, eyes wide and heart wild in his chest. "What in the world is going on, uncle?"

Cross reached into his dresser and pulled out some random clothes, throwing the articles at the teenager. "We need to get to the hospital," he said, sighing heavily. "We just—just need to _go_."

"Why?" Allen asked, wrestling out of his sleep shirt and grabbing the one his uncle threw at him. "Did somebody die? Oh, I hope nobody has died."

The bespectacled man looked at him, expression oddly serious. "Tiedoll—"

Allen covered his mouth with his hand, horrified. "Oh _no_!"

"—'s son—not the girl—was hit by a car. Right in the stomach." He raked his fingers through his long red hair, breathing through clenched teeth. "The old man's hysterical—we need to get there, and pronto."

"I understand that," Allen replied, straightening his shirt and working on his pants. He frowned. "Still, that's no good reason for you to beat me like an Irishman just to get me out of bed. You could've simply said 'Get up' and I'd've been on my feet!"

"Goddammit, just shut the fuck up," Cross smacked the boy atop the head, scowling. "You don't need to give a goddamn comment for _everything_, brat!"

"Why're you so bloody _abusive_?" the British teenager whined, huffing. He checked his digital clock on his nightstand, where the numbers blinked an ominous **1:12 AM**. "Should we go, now? Mr. Tiedoll is going to have a conniption if you're not there soon."

"Christ, kid," Cross replied, pushing the boy out of his room. "Believe me when I say that I already know."

----

There was something about the hospital lights that lit up the night sky, something that made Allen want to stay in the car—because it wasn't going to be pretty in there.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a choice, as Cross opened his door, _personally_, and dragged him out.

"I'll be a damned man in Hell before I go in there alone!" he hissed, hand fisted tight into the fifteen-year-old's shirt collar. "Let's go."

"One day, I will stab you," Allen threatened, forcing himself to keep up with his uncle's long-legged strides towards the glass doors of the hospital. He frowned at the sight of at _least_ five people in there, and then he was able to make out the outline of Tiedoll. "Oh _no_, the poor man!"

"Shut _up_, punk," Cross muttered, and he pushed open the mosaic glass doors forcefully. "Froi! Quit crying like a bitch!" he snapped with authority, catching the attention of everyone in the cream lobby.

Tiedoll looked over at him, his glasses fogged over and his cheeks wet with fresh tears. "Marian!" he cried, running to the younger man. "Oh _God_, it's terrible!"

Cross had to let go of Allen's collar so he could catch the man. The expression on his face, though, was absolutely priceless, because he looked like a little girl who was dared to eat a bug. The disgust was almost touchable, and he opened his arms with maximum hesitation. Tiedoll threw himself into the redhead's arms with little reservation, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Goddammit," the hazel-eyed man cursed, forcing himself to wrap his arms around the French man's back. "What the hell is the problem, Froi?"

"Daisya—!" Tiedoll breathed heavily, gripping the back of Cross's shirt. "H-he might not make it!" The man leaned against Cross even _more_ as he cried harder. "My boy!"

Allen almost felt a tear begin to slide down his cheek, and he sniffled.

"You're buggin' out, old man," a terse voice snapped from the side of Allen, and the British boy looked over to see the scowling visage of Kanda. "He's not dead, _yet_." His hands were stuffed inside his pockets, and he looked down at his shoes as though he couldn't see anywhere else.

"He's not dead at all," Marie attempted with a small, weak smile. "He's just in a coma, Cross. The doc says that there's a chance he might pull through!"

"Fuck that!" Kanda snapped, looking up with furious eyes that were rimmed red. But, Allen wondered as he observed the event, from _what_? "His insides—they're all fucked up! He's got intestines where his lungs should be, and all that shit. Why the fuck would you even _lie_ to yourself like that?"

A hand touched his shoulder, and he just about went crazy grabbing the arm and twisting it. "Don't fucking _touch_ me, Chaoji!" he snarled, throwing the man's abused arm away from him.

Chaoji looked angry himself. "Get over yourself, Kanda!" he snapped, shoving his younger foster brother. "Dad's having a hard time—he doesn't need your _bullshit_ right now!"

"If he didn't want _bullshit_, he would've never adopted you!" Kanda yelled right back, pushing the Asian man in retaliation.

"You _asshole_—I fucking _hate_ you sometimes!" the older man cried, tears beginning to gather at his eyes. He pointed accusingly at Kanda, lips turned in a terse frown. "But, you're my other little brother—like _Daisya_, skeezer!"

"Shut the fuck _up_," Kanda snapped, running his fingers through his loose, long hair. "Just, shut _up_." He looked like he was going to sit down, but there were no chairs close by.

Allen sighed, and reached out to loop his arm with the older teenager's. "Calm down," he started calmly, noting the tense reaction. "You need to sit down—blatantly so."

Kanda paused, looking at him. "Shut up," he replied, weakly, and for the lack of anything better to say.

The British teenager led him to a chair and pushed him down. "Just, _sit down_," he said, sitting in a seat next to him. "Breathe, or something. But, please, _calm down_. Don't cock up your family—not right now, at least."

"…Whatever," the nineteen-year-old replied, crossing his arms and looking down at his shoes again.

A hand touched the top of Allen's head, and he looked up into the kind, milky eyes of Marie. "Thanks," he said with a smile. "He needed that, most definitely."

"I could tell," Allen replied with a smile himself. He looked over at Cross and Tiedoll, who were still embracing and it was beginning to look steadily more homosexual, the more the red-haired man tried to talk to the man, but Tiedoll just broke down into his now-wet shirt.

"—ank you for your time," a deep voice muttered from the side, and Allen found himself looking in that direction. A police officer and another man stood, with the officer nodding and speaking. "We'll be seeing you, Mr. Mikk."

"Thank you for understanding," was the reply, and Tyki turned around. He spotted Allen with wide eyes, and froze in motion. "…"

Allen stood up, against his better judgment, and walked to the man with slow steps. "Mikk," he greeted, cocking an eyebrow and flashing a smile. "…Why are you here?"

Tyki hesitated, visibly, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I…" he began, playing with a lock of his curly hair. "I—"

"You're the fuckoff that hit my brother!" Chaoji snapped, stomping up to the two and scowling. "Why the fuck are you here?!"

"You hit _Daisya_?" Allen said, eyes wide. "That, that was _you_?"

"I didn't mean it!" Tyki said, rubbing his temples to ward off a headache. "I mean—it was an _accident_, and I did apologize."

"Apologies can't bring someone back," the Asian man growled, crossing his arms. "Besides, that was too fucked to be an _accident_, in my opinion!"

"And who said your opinion was wanted?" Tyki retorted from between clenched teeth. He sighed heavily. "It really was an accident, though." He looked over at Allen, eyes heavy-lidded and tired. "You believe me, don't you, baby?"

This _again_? "Don't call me 'baby,'" Allen replied, and he cracked a small smile. "But, yes, I do believe you." He believed him because he had religion—God gave second chances for a valid reason.

"No fucking _way_, Allen," Chaoji snapped, jostling the boy's shoulder. "You can't believe this guy! He hit my fucking _foster_ brother with his nice-ass car!"

"My car doesn't have a nice ass," Tyki muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Shut the hell up, Mex!"

The white-haired boy looked up at Chaoji. "It's not a matter of what he did," he replied with a small bit of annoyance, because it was kind of ridiculous. "It's a matter of what you can do, as in _forgiveness_—and I'm sorry if I'm pushing my religion on you, but that's what the Lord Christ died for, along with our sins." He felt rather rehearsed, oddly enough.

"…" Chaoji looked at him with an expression that was obviously one of betrayal. "…Just, forget it," he muttered, running his hand across his eyes. "…Whatever…"

Tyki sighed again, and he touched his chin. "I'll see you tomorrow, or something," he said to Allen, smiling. "I've got to go home. I feel, like, _mad_ tired." He waved at the boy as he walked away, nodding at Cross and Tiedoll and smiling at Kanda.

The door creaked with his exit, and Allen found himself back in his seat next to Kanda, who was quiet.

"…Kanda?" he asked in a whisper, touching the older teenager's elbow.

Kanda looked up, scowling. "What?" he replied roughly.

"I know it's bloody early," Allen continued, smiling. "And you and Lavi still owe me—but, might I take you out to lunch?" He poked at Kanda's stomach, his smile widening as the Japanese teenager growled and batted at his hand. "You might need it more than me—and that's an accomplishment."

"You've got that right," Kanda replied, rubbing at his right eye. He huffed. "Besides, we can't go anywhere. Nothing's open and it's not even lunchtime."

Allen stood up, grinning. "I already told you, twit," he said, tugging the guitarist up by his arm. "Lunch to me is everything. You need to get cracking, dear sir!"

Kanda flicked him on the forehead. "Yeah," he muttered lowly. "Maybe I do."

* * *

Aww, now I feel kind of bad for the people who were like "I really enjoyed the fact that Daisya is alive and kicking in this story" because now he's alive, but just not kicking.

And, wow, that's a surprising amount of emotion in this chapter. :D I usually never get so into a chapter to the point where I'm identifying and typing like it's my life story—of which, it's not. :D Never been in foster care, never had a sibling severely injured, and never been abused (to a terrible extent—my mom is psycho-crazy).

(Aww I like-a de Kanda/Allen, I like-a it a lot.)

But, speaking of foster care, Rhode's relationships go like this: she's actually Tyki and Sherman's first cousin, but (with an actual personal experience pertaining to my own mother and her adoption of my cousin) Sherman adopted her. :D It works out, right, _right_?

Songs used in this chapter for the radio: "It's My Life" by Talk Talk, "Method of Modern Love" by Hall and Oates, and "Rock Me Amadeus" by Falco (we'll have to pretend that it was released in 1985, instead of 1986). D: I LOVE EVERY SONG WITH A PASSION

Oh, and Momo-Con, to the Kaza, was bland and okay. But, Emiggax had a kickass time and a kickass costume. People kept looking at the Kaza like, omg, it's Team Rocket! And the Kaza is, like, _where_?! Which made the Kaza and the Kaza's Gay BFF lol every time. :D LOL Maybe when I go to college I can meet other people at other cons.

BIG APOLOGY: I'm super sorry when I don't get to reply to your reviews! D: I took the SAT and shit—the English section was like chocolate cake, by the way, since I ate right through it, but I don't want to talk about the Math section D:—and the GHSGT is coming on me, and I'm always stressed and trying to think about something else. Hence this chapter! But, anyway, I'm just really sorry. D: I hate coming across as an ungrateful bastard, because we really appreciate all of you and your fantastic comments! :D (Maybe I should put Emi on Review Reply duty—since I'm obviously failing and all.)


	27. 99 Luftballons

_TWENTY-SEVEN_

Marie was so happy he could've done a back flip and then landed on his feet—because this was just that lethally _awesome_. He wanted to hug the young man, crush him within his arms, and only because he took the time to care.

He touched the boy's shoulder, causing the gray eyes look towards him. "You need any help?" Marie asked, trying to tone down his smile, but that was kind of difficult at this rate. "I mean, like, a ride or cash or…or whatever. Something."

"Thank you," Allen smiled back, raising his pale hand to pat the dark-skinned man's fingers. "But, no thank you. I think we'll be fine, and if you came along—it wouldn't help the twit at all." He grinned.

"Shut up, brat," Kanda snapped, arms crossed as he stood some ways away. He rubbed at an eye, trying to dispel the slight redness from his excess of emotion. "Are we goin' or what?"

"Coming, dear," Allen replied sarcastically, nodding at Marie and walking away from the large man. "Don't get your trousers in a knot, nitwit."

Kanda sniffed. "If I knew what a trouser was, I'm sure it'd be another reason to kick your Euro ass." He started walking towards the glass doors of the hospital, hands tucked in his pockets and still looking down at his shoes.

_Oh_, the British boy thought with a frown. _He's still depressed._ He wasn't even sure what made him want to make the older teenager feel better—but he was sure that keeping all that anger and depression pooled inside would never be healthy.

He walked past his uncle, who scowled at him immediately. Allen wasn't quite sure why, actually.

"Brat," he started, struggling a little under Tiedoll's grip. "You have until nine for your little fagtastic heroics, and if you're not back—I'll do something fucked up."

"What, ground me?" Allen retorted, rolling his eyes. He flipped off a small salute, smiling anyway. "I'll be back on time, sir. Don't have an eppy if I'm late, though." He jogged up faster to catch up with Kanda, passionately ignoring the curses of his uncle and the sobs of Tiedoll.

Kanda held the door open for him, scowling. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, releasing the edge of the glass door once Allen was through. "It took you long enough. Were you writing a fucking novel or something?"

"I was simply talking to my uncle, prick," the white-haired teenager replied, rubbing his bare arms to conduct warmth in the cool summer night air. "Apparently, I have a curfew." His voice was sarcastic, but he had an expression of actual wonder on his pale face.

"Curfews are for yuppies," Kanda replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "You don't come home on time—okay? What're they gonna do? _Ground_ you?" He snorted in slight amusement. "Yeah fuckin' right."

"That's what _I_ said!" They had so much more in common than Allen had first realized. _Speaking of realizations_… "Do you have your van?" Allen asked as he walked to the side of Kanda, smiling brightly. The parking lot of the hospital was ominous and dark, and every step echoed in the expansive square. "If not, then I've got quite the hand at hotwiring—"

"Dude. _Doy_, I've got my van," Kanda replied, giving the younger teenager a weird look. "How else the fuck would I've gotten here, stupid?" He paused for a moment. "_Hotwiring_?"

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "Well, excuse me, then," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'd only assumed you came with Mr. Tiedoll—as that _is_ your foster father—"

"_Ex_-foster dad," the Japanese man corrected, scowling. "I don't live with the geezer anymore. I've got my own apartment and shit, and, hey, haven't you been to my place before?"

_Don't remind me_, Allen thought with a small frown, remembering that escapade all too well. "Any roads," he replied, using the slang more common in the northern parts of the UK. "Where would you like to eat? Choose any place, and I'll buy!" He clasped his hands together, grinning. "Come on now—speak up! I won't care where, I do swear."

"…Uh," Kanda coughed into a fist, eyebrows furrowed. "I guess…McDonald's?"

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "Such _class_," he commented, coming to a stop in front of the older teenager's van.

"Wait!" Kanda exclaimed, glaring. "I—I changed my mind, brat! I wanna go to IHOP."

"The _International House of Pancakes_?" the British teenager replied, smirking. "Do you _really_ want to go there?"

"Shit—Wendy's?"

"Oh, sure, it's a blast of a place—if you were homeless and exceedingly desperate."

"Come _on_," Kanda unlocked his van door, and almost tore open the metal door in his thought. "Fuck, how about Popeye's? Can I fuck up with Popeye's?"

"Surprisingly enough, you can," Allen hopped in on the other side, shutting the door behind himself. "I mean, it's only so terrible—even though _I_ don't eat there, it doesn't mean that you shouldn't!"

"What about Waffle House? Waffle House is fucking delicious." The guitarist paused. "I _think_."

"Now, I don't even need to say anything about that."

Kanda's stress was tangible, almost. "Why the _fuck_—uh, Taco Bell?" He didn't even _like_ Taco Bell—he just wanted to see if that was allowed.

Allen buckled in his seatbelt. "It's not a bad place, actually," he replied, shrugging with a grin. "We'll just ignore the fact that it's mostly artificial and probably carries a good few STDs."

"Why STDs?" Kanda demanded, annoyed.

"Why Taco Bell?" Allen retorted, arms crossed over his chest.

"God_damn_ you," The ignition churned angrily as the Japanese man twisted the keys. A low rumble vibrated the vehicle, and Kanda shifted the gear into drive. "Then, where the hell _can_ we go, since you know so much, EuroDork?"

----

They ended up going to Denny's, much to the disdain and offense to Kanda.

"It's just like fucking _IHOP_," he snapped heatedly, looking at his menu with narrowed eyes. "Why the fuck is this place even open? It's, like," He looked at his wristwatch, squinting. "Two-thirty in the morning."

"It's the best time _to_ eat, believe you me," Allen replied, grinning. "When else can you get the darkness of supper and the delight of breakfast?"

"Brunch?"

"Wrong!" The white-haired boy's eyes lit up in delight. "_Lunch_. Everything is lunch—don't question it, just believe me. So!" He looked back down at his own menu, tapping a finger on his chin in thought. "Have you decided what you're going to eat?"

"…" Kanda rested his chin on an upturned hand, scowling. "I'm not that hungry—"

"Neither am I, but I'm still going to eat." Allen toned down his smile, playing with the flap of his menu. "It'll make you feel better, Kanda," he said sternly, brushing loose locks of white hair out of his sight. "Believe me when I say so—since I would _know_."

"Why? Because you're a big crybaby?" Kanda muttered, pulling the fork and knife out of the napkin folded over the cutlery. He attempted to balance the knife over the side of the fork, frowning in concentration.

Allen grinned. "Have you ever seen me cry?" he replied, amused. "The answer would most likely be no, because I—what are you doing?" He stared at the older teenager, eyebrows high in clear curiosity. The knife hovered on the thin edge of the stainless steel fork, and Kanda's muscles were taut in the effort to keep it steady. "That's quite a trick. Very neat, if I should say so."

"Fuckoff Number Three taught me how," Kanda replied distractedly, eyebrows furrowing. "When I was, like, ten." The knife fell, clattering against the wooden tabletop, and the dark-haired teenager brought his hand to his forehead, sighing. "What the fuck? Why does everyone take me seriously when I'm _not_ trying to be serious?" He scowled. "It's so fucking _bogus_."

"Ah." The British boy leaned back, smiling. "What the bloody hell are you _talking_ about?"

"I wasn't fucking _serious_ when I told him to go get hit by a car!" Kanda snapped, rubbing a temple in anger. "I was serious when I told him to fall off a cliff, I was serious when I told him to jump off a fucking plane, and I was _dead serious_ when I told him that Billy Idol sucked—but I wasn't serious that _one time_. It was a fucking _joke_."

"Oh, Kan_da_," Allen reached out to pick up the fork, and he held it in front of Kanda's face. "Come off it, now! Cheer up!" He smiled, and then made an attempt to cross his eyes. "Och!" That failed rather gloriously, as he shook his head to get his vision back in order.

Kanda huffed, pushing away the fork in the kid's wrinkled red fingers. "Nerd," he replied, smirking.

"Ah, but I _am_ smarter than you, aren't I?" the British boy mused aloud, rubbing his chin in faux thought.

"Give it a good thirty years," Kanda said, shrugging back and yawning from loose fingers. "—Maybe you'll be, like, a third of my ace-placed genius. I _was_ salutatorian, stupid."

A shadow fell over the table, and two glasses of water were placed in front of the duo. "Yeah _right_," a slightly muffled voice interjected in amusement. "Dude, the 411 was that you didn't even _want_ to be salutatorian or whatever. I totally remember—I was kind of _there_."

Allen looked up, eyes widening. "Well, blow me! _Toma_?" he started, rather surprised. "You still exist?" Oh, well…it wasn't supposed to come out like that. He hated the way Cross left him with such a gap in his soul that anyone who graduates (or goes away for a long time, same thing to him, really) just _ceases_ to exist, with the only exceptions being Kanda and Lavi—because of extended contact.

Toma laughed from under a surgical mask that covered his lower face. "Most definitely," he replied, nodding. His eyes sparkled with amusement. "It's so whacked—seeing _you two_ together. Like, I always thought that you," he pointed a pen at Allen. "Would end up with Lavi, 'cause he was so fucking gay for you. And, _you_," he shifted the pointing to Kanda. "Would end up with your right hand or Mother Teresa, because, holy shit, could anyone possibly put up with your shit? And, then, I found out, _yes_, Aaron can."

"Allen," Allen corrected, smiling. "My name is Allen."

"I know…just wanted to hear your kickass accent."

Kanda stared at Toma, eyebrows furrowed in contemplation.

"Who the hell are you?" he finally asked, blinking. "Fuck, you look familiar, but I can't put my finger on it." He snapped his fingers and pointed at the blond man. "You're that guy from that Pinto commercial! Yeah!"

"…What?" Toma replied, eyebrows high. He barked a laugh, raking his fingers through his medium length hair. "Um, wow, maybe you really weren't salutatorian." He whistled lowly, attempting to hide a snicker. "_Pinto?_"

Allen leaned over the table to bring his lips near Kanda's ear. "It's _Toma_," he whispered, snickering. "The two of you went to school together—graduated and such. You went to his graduation party, remember? You spiked the bloody _punch_ and then smoked marijuana in his kitchen while staring at the wall."

"Damn," Kanda whistled, cocking an eyebrow. "That was _him_?"

"Correct!" The white-haired boy sat back in his seat, grinning. "So, you remember now?" Dear Lord, _Kanda_ was much better at forgetting people existed than he was. He should really ask how he does it (but, knowing the guitarist, the answer would be so ridiculously stupid that he'd regret the question immediately).

"Not really, but whatev'." The Japanese man looked back down at his menu, obviously in contemplation. His scowl became more defined as the seconds passed and the soft music continued playing. And, much to his _delight_, it was Billy Idol. "…should'a went to fucking IHOP…"

"Anyway," Allen looked up at Toma, hands clasped together and his expression jovial. "Why ever are you here so…_late_? It's—" He reached out and grabbed Kanda's arm, ignoring the small growl, and checked the time. "—Two forty-eight, AM. That's quite the time to be at a Denny's."

"I could totally say the same for you," Toma replied, shrugging. "I work here—night job, day job, but its choice. Have community college classes in the day, since I want to get some credit before I motor to Hampton State."

_Hampton State_? "…" Allen didn't know how to word his thoughts, but thank the good Lord that the blond man was able to pick up on what he _wanted_ to say.

"Sure, it's mostly black," he stated, chuckling. "But, it's a fucking _A_ school—can't let the color of my skin get in the way of my future, can you relate?"

"Err, yes." The British boy covered his mouth with wrinkled red fingers. "Not that I'm racist! But, I was just wondering, and…such. I'm really not racist!" He needed to accentuate that, because the civil rights movement was only twenty or so years ago. The country was still kind of tender in race relations.

"Dude, kid, calm down," Toma replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "Never thought you were. So!" Reaching into his apron, the blond man pulled out a small notepad, and he posed his pen over the blank sheet of paper. "You two ready to order, yet?"

"Oh!" A smile lit up Allen's face, and he looked down at his menu. "I'd love the sampler—but, instead, I'll take four. And a cup of Earl Grey tea, if possible."

"Uh _huh_," the waiter hummed, scribbling the order down. He smiled. "All right, I'll be back—"

"What the _fuck_?" Kanda snapped, an eyebrow cocked. "So, you're not gonna take my order, just because I hate your commercial? That's some _bogus_ shit."

_That's right, Kanda_, Allen thought with a widening grin. _Stay angry for inconceivable reasons—don't think about Daisya or the accident!_

"But, I thought that he ordered for the _both_—"

"You thought _wrong_, skeezer," the Japanese man snarled, fingers curling around a butter knife as though it posed some sort of threat. Then again, in Kanda's hand, it probably could do quite a bit of damage. "If there's anything I hate more than stupid accents," he threw a dirty look at Allen, who waved back jauntily. "It's when people _chose_ shit for me. Don't you all think I got enough of that in the old man's house?" He covered his eyes and sighed. "Old man was _always_ choosing for us—never got my own word in, most of the time. Marie took it like it came with a fucking smile, Chaoji _existed_—and goddamn him for that, and Daisya was always filing fucking _complaints_—like I'm gonna do in a moment if you don't take my goddamn order!"

Toma and Allen both couldn't help but stare, and the pen slipped from the waiter's suddenly lax grip. It clattered to the floor, and both teenagers snapped out of their trace suddenly. "R-right!" Toma stuttered, bending down and picking up the pen shakily. "Um. What…would you like to eat?"

"I want a chicken basket," Kanda replied, scowling and picking up the menu. "And a Pepsi."

"Chicken, Pepsi, alright." The blond teenager pocketed his notepad with a nervous laugh. It was probably brought on by the terrible glare Kanda was giving him, complete with narrowed eyes and sneering lips. "I'll, uh, be back with you two. Or something. Peace!" He walked away stiffly, scratching his head.

Allen smacked his forehead, dragging the hand down in a show of exasperation. "Quick question, and don't get offended," he started, shaking his head in amusement. "But, do you treat people like this _all_ of the time?"

Kanda brought his cup of water to his lips. "Yeah," he replied, blowing ripples against the top. "Is there a problem?"

"Of course not," the British boy said, poking his straw and watching it wade against the glass rim barrier. "It'd be dull if you had any less of a personality, actually." He grinned. "I find that I rather fancy hanging around with you—not to mention you brass off my uncle. I could _kiss_ you for that!"

"…Hmm?" Kanda hummed in interest, gulping back the water in his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ignoring the disapproving look he received from the fifteen-year-old. "Really?"

"Don't sound so hopeful," Allen deadpanned, rolling his eyes. "I swear! Between you and Lavi and, well, I don't feel like mentioning Mikk, but still!"

"Jesus Christ, kid," the Japanese teenager retorted, rolling his eyes. "Get over yourself—and get a looser pair of fucking _pants_, for God's sake!"

"Why must you continue using the Lord's name in vain?" Allen asked offhandedly, tongue flicking out to lick his lips.

Kanda rolled his eyes in disdain. "_Oh Dear Lord_," he mimicked in a voice a few octaves higher and obviously thickly accented. He snorted in offense. "God hates ugly, brat—and hypocrites."

"I bet you don't even know the meaning of the word." Allen frowned, fingers tapping against the tabletop. "You don't even believe in God, do you? I'd bet that you were one of those, oh, _atheists_." He almost spat out the word, gagging as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"What? No. I'm Christian, or something." Kanda replied, cocking an eyebrow. "What you got against atheists, anyway?"

"I have nothing against hell-spiraling pagan cultures that are clearly just the whispers of Satan," Allen responded with a tight smile.

It was obvious that he did, especially to Kanda.

"Judaism?" he tried, smirking in amusement.

"Hmm? Other than the fact that they killed my Lord and refuse to acknowledge him as the savoir," the white-haired boy sipped at his water, closing his gray eyes. "I'm just fine with their general existence."

"Man," Kanda whistled. "Cyclops is, heh, kind of screwed, then?"

"Lavi can save himself," Allen replied, waving a hand in dismissal with a small laugh. "All he needs is to proclaim Christ as the messiah, and we will have a happier relationship than Cher and Sonny could ever _dream_ of."

This kid had more of a personality than he thought, Kanda mused as he swallowed back a gulp of water. The creepy smiles and fucking accent can only get him so far, and the existence of an actual sliver of personality made the brat almost okay in his books. Besides, it was kind of fun, being able to talk to someone except for his ex-foster dad—because it was so obvious how _that_ would end up, especially in this tribulation of their lives.

"It's so _dark_ outside," Allen muttered, looking out the window of the restaurant. "It's probably three at this point. I can hardly believe I'm still wide-awake!"

"You're just freaked," Kanda replied, shrugging. "When you really get over the lame shock of finding out your boyfriend hit my ex-foster bro', then you'll be knocked out like a kid."

"…_Boyfriend_?" The word was pronounced with so much disdain, it metaphorically _dripped_. "I'll have you know that, one, I am not gay, and, two, _Tyki Mikk_." He tried to smile, but it ended up failing due to his affronted feeling. "You consider yourself smart, so you _should_ be able to do the equation."

Man, that was getting old, and _fast_. "If you say you aren't gay one more time," Kanda threatened, picking up the butter knife again. "I will give you a facial you will never forget."

"…" Allen couldn't help it. He covered his mouth with his wrinkled red hand and laughed, leaning back in his seat. "A little too late for that, hmm?" he replied, brushing his hair away from his scar.

"Shut up," Kanda replied, staring at the scar as though it were a new video on MTV. "What the fuck _is_ that, anyway? It looks fucking _flange_."

Allen blinked. "What the bloody hell is a _flange_?" he demanded, and then shook his head. "Never mind—I'd rather not even know. It's an American kind of deal, isn't it?"

"Just like how _trousers_ is a British kind of deal, geek," the Japanese teenager retorted, huffing. "But, seriously, the scar shit. How'd you get it?" He was really curious about that—someone just doesn't fall and get something like _that_.

"Hmm?" Allen touched his scar, smiling. "Why, I can't remember for the life of me." He shrugged, tapping at his chin. "Either way, I haven't a problem with it. Between my hair, my arm, and my bloody wonderful scar—I should've been voted 'Oddest Foreigner' in the yearbook!"

"That's some whacked shit," Kanda admitted, running his fingers through his hair. "You should find out, though, where that thing came from. I'm not gonna be the last Dick to ask about it, you know."

"And you most certainly won't be the last," Allen replied, grinning. He perked up and turned around, almost standing on the booth seat in excitement. "The food's here!"

"Sit down!" Kanda kicked at his knee, rolling his eyes when the kid yelped in pain. "Man, you're acting like a loser—more than usual, at least."

"Hmph!" Allen huffed, crossing his arms. He tried not to salivate as Toma placed the first large plate of food in front of him. "You're just jealous because _I_ have a loving relationship with sausage." He picked up the link of meat, smiling at it. "And it loves me back, too." He tossed it into his mouth, chewing it a few times before swallowing. The next one followed its predecessor's example, and then the bacon, and then the _pancakes_ were touched.

Kanda and Toma stared. "Here's, uh," the waiter stuttered, trying to tear his eyes away from the massacre that was 'lunch'. "Uh, your, um, chicken basket. And Pepsi." But, he made no move to give the dark-haired man his food, purely because he was frozen in shock.

"This is just _grodie_," Kanda commented, unable to even blink.

The British boy swallowed half of his eggs, and blinked at Kanda in curiosity. "Aren't you going to eat that?" he asked, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "It'll make you feel better, I promise."

"Uh," Kanda looked at the chicken basket, which was still in Toma's hand. "For sure, or something." He snuck a look at Allen again, almost wincing as the French toast was mutilated and then ripped into. "Holy _shit_, kid."

"Totally," Toma agreed, and his distress was visible, even with the facial mask.

----

It was about four AM, according to Kanda's analog watch, when they left the Denny's in shambles.

Or, at least Allen's meal.

"Holy _shit_," Kanda muttered, his eyes forward as he weaved through the odd traffic. Why the hell were people even _outside_ at this point? It seriously made no sense to him.

"The shite is never glorified," Allen muttered, rolling his eyes. "No matter how many times you say it."

"Hey. Shut the hell up, freak." It was apparent that Kanda was at a lack of anything better to say, because it would inevitably be his mantra of horror that he was quick to become fond of. "Just, holy _shit_."

"Clear off," the younger teenager sniffed, crossing his legs and resting a black sneakered foot on the glove compartment. The streetlights shone brightly out the open windows on the semi-empty streets of Downtown Hampton, with the humid summer air sticking to his bare skin. The radio played the soft, soothing (and he's being sarcastic, in case one was wondering) sounds of Led Zeppelin, most likely in hopes that it would clear Kanda's conscience of his forced endurance of Billy Idol. "How do you feel, prick?" he asked.

Kanda didn't take his eyes off of the road ahead. "Huh," he grunted, shrugging. "Why?"

"I'm just wondering," Allen replied, tapping his fingers against his half-exposed bicep. "But, it's all right. Where're we going, twit?"

"To buy shit," the Japanese man answered, his hand covering his mouth as a yawn slipped through. "Ach—I need some more shirts."

"What? _What_?" Allen looked incredulous. "But, that's more ridiculous than eating at two in the morning! It's _four_, dimwit! What place is open at _this_ time of bloody day?" he demanded, gesticulating with wide sweeping motions that didn't get his point across as well as he was really hitting Kanda. "And why do you need a _shirt_ at this point in your life? Are you _flexing_ and ripping them, or something to that degree?"

"Why the fuck are you bitching at me about what _I_ wear?" Kanda snapped, looking at him and somehow still driving between the lines. "If I want a new shirt, then I want a new fucking shirt! Do you see me getting pissed off every time you go to _Arystar's_ for a new pair of Joanie-jeans?"

"So, you _are_ flexing, you conceited bastard!"

"What? _No_! There are fucking _oil stains_ on most of my shirts, skeezer!" The guitarist took a hand off of the wheel and pulled at the one shirt he was wearing then, the thin fabric lifting up and exposing his stomach. "I'm not gonna go everyday of my life wearing dirty shirts because you're a fucking _fag_ about fashion, Trendie."

"I don't need to be a _fag_ about _fashion_ to have sense, common and clothing," Allen retorted, flicking loose tresses of his hair out the way of his sight again. "You driving about at four in the bloody _morn'_ makes no sense to me!" He snorted. "Where were you going to get the shirt, then, Kan_da_?"

"Kmart, _duh_," Kanda replied, clicking his tongue in annoyance. "Where _else_ would I get it?"

"Hmph!" The fifteen-year-old leaned back in the worn leather passenger seat, eyes closed and nose titled in a show of faux arrogance. "We'll just _see_ if it's open, _prick_."

"Bet you five bucks it is," Kanda muttered, huffing.

Allen opened one eye, a grin quick to stretch on his lips. "Oh, _really_?" he asked. "Then, I'll bet you five that it is _not_." Money is one of the few things he could trust in his life to always come through, somehow.

"You're _on_."

----

"Wipe that fucking grin off your face, Eurodork," Kanda growled, throwing the money at Allen. "It was a crucial _miscalculation_, loser."

Allen stuck the five in his pocket, grinning harder than ever. "Such a shame," he said, covering his mouth to hide his smile, even though it was as wide as the world. "What'll we do until eight? You know, the time when Kmart actually _opens_."

The van's suspension creaked in the mostly empty parking lot, and the English boy rubbed his arm with a pout. "You didn't have to punch me," he replied.

"Shut up, stupid," Kanda grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. "Fuck, now what're we gonna do?"

"…" Allen was at a bit of a loss himself. "Well, I'd suppose we could always talk—that should prove to be interesting."

"And listen to your bogus accent more than I need to?" the guitarist snorted. "Yeah _right_."

"Well then!" Allen smiled. "I'll just talk about how the UK is better than America—in an _ode_. Oh, in the motherland of England, the green grasses loll about the lands…in comparison to America, where grass is somewhat of a shock to find." He sighed. "London is a place full of culture and interest, while New York is a bloody Denny's sampler, because it's got a little of _everything_."

Kanda looked at him, horrified. "What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded.

"Driving on the left side of the street is a safer alternative," Allen continued in his _ode_, clasping his hands together in delight. "But, here, there are more car crashes than Kamikaze pilots in the second world war. In the beautiful UK, the music is usually _great_—in America, the music is usually _okay_, as you can take one look at _Cheap Trick_ and know that they are surely not going anywhere."

"Billy Idol came from the U-fuckin'-K," Kanda snapped, arms crossed. "You can't get pissed off at America just because you're stuck here until you _graduate_." He put an emphasis on that word, smirking.

"Actually," the white-haired boy said, his smile terse. "I _can_. Now, may I continue? Or will you start talking instead?" He waited one second. "Very well—Our monarchy is much more effective than your democracy…"

"Shut the _fuck up_," the Japanese teenager groaned out, smacking his forehead and dragging the hand down. "Why do _I_ have to talk?"

"Because, if you don't," Allen grinned again, interlacing his mismatched fingers. "I can always think of more things to add to my ode, and the good Lord knows that I have many things to say!"

"I hate you," Kanda muttered, leaning back in his seat. "_So much_."

"Wonderful. So! What would you like to talk about?" Allen started, and then he snapped his fingers. "I know! Tell me about _Mugen_. How'd you get the guitar and so good at it?"

"What? Oh." Kanda shrugged. "My uncle got it for me, for, like, my eleventh birthday. Can't remember how I got good at it—I just didn't want to play the fucking _saxophone_ anymore, like the old man was making me. 'Music heals the soul' my Jap ass."

Allen nodded, curious. "So, you wanted an alternative…?"

"Didn't I _say_ that? Jesus Christ, you're making me talk and you aren't even listening. Hoser."

"Oh, get _over_ yourself! Continue, please."

"Yeah, yeah. I hated the sax, and I wanted something to do in my life that wasn't gay like debate club or soccer." His contempt was palpable, almost. "Then, I got a guitar, and it was like, 'holy shit,' because I had something to do." He shrugged once more. "And, now I'm here, in a van with you, at four-thirty-something in the morning." He scowled. "I've gotten far in my life."

"That's a really nice story," the British boy replied, eyes wide. "Do you have another one?"

"No. Stop asking stupid questions, koozebane."

"Well, then I'll just tell you about the one with Cross and how I had to almost hijack a plane! It was bloody _barmy_—lemme tell you!"

----

The talk lasted a good two and a half hours, much to Kanda's annoyance and Allen's delight. The Japanese teenager had somehow endured nine stories pertaining to the kid's asshole of an uncle and his fucking dog, and he had countered with stories of his old high school and Link and why he hates Saturday Night Live.

"It's not even _funny_," he insisted, eyes heavy-lidded as he stared out of the window. "It's anti-excellent. It's like, I'm trying to hotbox my living room, and then SNL comes on, and it's like, goddammit, because the high is all gone."

"You should watch_ Kessler_," Allen replied, covering his mouth politely as he yawned. "It's the bee's knees, in all the truth!"

"Wait," Kanda blinked. "Bees have _knees_?"

"…" Allen resisted the not-so-unfamiliar urge to smack the nineteen-year-old upside the head. He truly believed, though, that if he did, there would be a sort of clanging noise. "No," was the only answer he could give, _verbally_. "Bees do not have knees, dimwit."

"Do you want to walk back to the damn hospital?" the older teenager snapped. "No? Then shut your English mouth, brat."

"Oh dear," Allen moaned, hitting his head against the back of his seat. The sky above them had finally begun to part for the slivers of morning light. In way, he felt like a child; especially as he struggled to keep his eyes open and his posture straight. "Is it eight, yet?" He didn't dare consult his watch.

"No," Kanda replied, glancing at his wrist. "It's, uh, six-fifty. Or fifteen. Fuck, I can't tell!" The Japanese teen almost banged his head on the steering wheel in his frustration.

"Why are we still here?" Allen complained, finding it hard to stay somewhat polite when he was so tired and his only companion for miles was a bloody idiot who went shopping for _shirts_ at four in the morning, in a true idiot manner.

(He was only a little spiteful.)

"Because the store hasn't opened yet, Sherlock," Kanda retorted, and it was obvious that he was sleeping as well. "What do you want from me?"

"For you to come back _later,_" the white-haired teenager said, rolling his eyes—and even _that_ took some effort. "We aren't getting anywhere in this parking lot. _Literally_!" He shook his head to dispel some of the sleep. "So, the only reasonable thing to do would be to go back to the hospital, find out how _Daisya_ is faring, and then go home, because it has been a very long and trying night—day—oh _whatever_!"

"What the fuck is _your_ problem—"

There was a rap at the back of the van, and both teenagers froze in their incoming argument.

"Is there a problem?" a police officer asked, sauntering up to the open window. She shined the glare of his flashlight through, and Kanda hissed as it got him right in the eyes.

"Hmm?" Allen hummed, squinting as the light came on to him. If the sun was coming out, then _why_ did this woman find it necessary to use a flashlight? "Oh, everything is just fine, Officer!"

Kanda's lips twitched, but the younger teenager saw that coming _miles_ away. "Ow!" he yelped at the elbow that jabbed itself into his side, and glared at the kid. "The _fuck_?"

"Just fine, huh?" the officer cocked a thin eyebrow. She tapped the flash light on the doorframe. "Well, I'm gonna have to ask why such fine young ladies are sitting in an empty Kmart parking lot when the place is closed."

"Oh, we're just waiting—Wait, _excuse me_?" Allen started, eyebrows about flying to his hairline. "Did you just call us _ladies_? Well," he glanced at Kanda. "Did you just call _me_ a lady?" Kanda was going to attempt murder later, but that was okay.

"What?" She squinted at them suspiciously. "You both are _boys_?"

Kanda snorted. "In case you didn't notice," he replied in a mocking tone of voice.

"Huh." The police officer looked oddly quelled. "So, you're just those kinds of guys, huh?" She smirked, leaning against the door.

"What are you talking about, cop?"

"Fags, of course," she snickered, covering her mouth. "Don't worry—I've got nothing against your kind. In fact," the officer cocked an eyebrow. "I was _going_ to give you a ticket for loitering, but…I can't fine you for love."

"Whoa, lady, are you _juiced_?" Kanda demanded, eyes wide. "You seriously think we're _ga—" _

"Sweetheart," Allen said suddenly, smiling and touching the older teenager's shoulder. "_Darling_. Of _course_ we're homosexuals!" He felt like he was dying inside, actually. "Don't you remember our first date?"

"What? _What_?!" the Japanese man smacked his hand off of his shoulder, horrified. "What the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

Allen narrowed his eyes, his smile widening. "I'm talking about how _gay_ we are," he replied, slightly annoyed. "After all, if we weren't gay, then we would receive a ticket. For _money_."

"A ticket?" Kanda looked at the police officer, who nodded in verification. "Fuck. _Shit_. Uh," he touched Allen's shoulder back, scowling. "Um, I love you, baby?"

"Don't call me baby," the fifteen-year-old automatically replied, and then he coughed. "Remember, you like to call me…" _Skeezer, hoser, brat, kid, freak, zeek, dork, loser, burnout, geek, Eurofag, Sherlock, Watson_— "_Dearest_," he finished with a slight tick in his eye.

"Oh my god I'm going to kill myself," Kanda muttered underneath his breath as he looked around to see if the police officer was still there.

And, much to his _delight_, she was.

"I love girls who're true to themselves," she said, grinning. The flashlight was flickered off, and the police officer tipped her hat. "I'll just leave you two, then. Practice safe sex—remember the AIDS epidemic, kids!" She walked away, whistling.

Kanda immediately buckled in his seatbelt, scowling. "I'm never coming back," he snarled as he jammed his keys back into the ignition. "To this fucking Kmart. I'll go Downtown, next time."

Allen just held his hand to his mouth. "I can't believe I called you _darling_," he whispered, looking down. "And _sweetheart_. Oh Dear _Lord_, I need to go to sleep. I'm clearly delusional."

"I could've told you that, freak."

----

It was almost sad how the moment they reached the hospital, the two, in lack of a better term, conked out.

And, they were asleep in the van, with one leaning against the other on what might've been an accident.

It must've been a tiring affair, Tiedoll believed as he looked through the open window. But, his smile was wider than it had ever been since 1975.

Cross tapped his foot impatiently, arms crossed. "Are they done fagging yet?" he snapped, glaring through his glasses. "We need to get this shit over with."

"Shh!" Tiedoll shushed him immediately, frowning. "You don't understand how phenomenal this is—my lovely boy has finally done what I've always wanted for him!"

"Have gay sex?"

"_No_." The Frenchman looked through the window again, resting his chin on his folded arms that were atop the frame. "He's getting over his teenage hatred phase. Finally!"

"What_ever_." Cross walked to the window, shoving the older man away. He banged his fist on the horn, a honk ripping out and screeching throughout the semi-empty parking lot. "Wake up, Betsy and Brat," he said, snapping his fingers in front of Kanda's face.

Kanda's eyes snapped open, and he looked over at Cross. "You _fucking jackass_," he hissed, lifting his head off of Allen's shoulder. Then, he blinked. "Wait, where the fuck am I?"

"Good morning, Yuu!" Tiedoll greeted, pushing Cross out of the way this time. "What a wonderful day, and it's only nine!"

"Nine? _Nine_?" the Japanese teenager looked irked, and he rubbed his temples. "So, wait, the Kmart is fucking _open_ now? _Shit_."

"I thought you were never going to that _'fucking_' Kmart again," Allen murmured, rubbing at his eyes with pinched fingers. "Excuse my French, Mr. Tiedoll."

"_Non_," Tiedoll replied, amused. "I have no problem! Anyway, guess what, Yuu?"

"You've got cancer and now you're gonna die?" Kanda tried with a bit of hope.

"I love you too, but no." The sandy-haired man grinned. "Well, they managed to get Daisya's bleeding under control—so, yes, he's still in a coma, but he might be able to survive."

"I thought his intestines were in place of his lungs?" Allen spoke up, blinking.

"What? Where did you hear such a thing?"

"…" Kanda looked stubbornly at his steering wheel in hopes that the car would magically start moving. "I don't know, Christ!" he barked at Allen, who kept giving him a disapproving look.

"Brat," Cross snapped, shoving Tiedoll. "Get out—we're going _home_."

"Ugh," Allen groaned, sluggishly unbuckling the seatbelt and opening the door. He jumped out and shut the frame behind him, smiling. "Cheers, Kanda! It was a blast, _darling_!"

Kanda flipped him the middle finger, yawning.

Cross smacked him on the head. "I told you to be back by nine, punk," he grumbled. "Made me think Candy kidnapped you or something."

"Yes," the British boy replied. "He kidnapped me. And then he _brought me back_, genius uncle of mine."

"Shut up, kid," Cross covered his mouth as he yawned. Apparently, physically comforting Tiedoll was very strenuous. "Just, get in the car. I'm sleepy, and you're walking with a limp." He huffed. "Fag."

Limp? Allen looked down at his legs, one of which had formed a bit of a cramp from being in one place for an extended period of time. (Summer vacation did that to you, with the lack of having to sit in a class and all.)

"I'm not gay." That's about all he could think to say.

* * *

OH TOMA, you're so _versatile_. I luff you and your one-hit-wonderness in canon. Although, sometimes, I wonder what I'd do without your twistable existence. :)

This is pretty much for the Kanda/Allen fans. Here at EmiPup Inc., we duly hope that _you are happy_.

(Lavi/Allen woo!) (…Poker Pair even moar woo, but not main woo.) (Why can't there be moar Poker Pair in the world?)

So, yeah, I'm taking the GHSGT at the moment. That's the Georgia High School Graduation Test, just so people could understand more. :D So far, I have fallen asleep because it was so easy. D: But, tomorrow and Thursday are Science and Social Studies—respectively. I mean, I feel kind of confident, because Social Studies is so my bitch (you might've noticed my intensive study of history), but _Science_ oh shit.

Once again, I apologize. D: This chapter was supposed to be longer with another scene, but like in Chapter 23, I couldn't write anymore. D: I need to stop this loserness in me—or, better yet, I'll _blame_ this godforsaken song that Emi forced me to listen to. "Ima Monster" by Bitches on the Dance Floor. Or was that 'Blood'? Either way, the song is like some sort of crack or DGM because I can't stop listening to it. D: 80s music plz, Kaza.

This chapter, the Kaza promises to reply to _every single review_. Because I don't want you all to lose your faith in me. D: But, Emiggax is extremely happy that a good amount of you have put your imaginations to good use and discovered that she really does exist. :D

(omg acne go away! D:)


	28. The Safety Dance

_TWENTY-EIGHT_

July 22nd, 1985.

"Why the _fuck_ are you touching me?" Kanda asked, and very calmly at that.

Komui sighed, embracing him tighter. "Because you _need_ the hug," he replied.

For some inconceivable reason, Kanda could not find a good name for the emotion that coursed through him the moment this grown man embraced him tightly. So far, he had come up with _annoyed_, _pissed-off_, _angry_, and _acerbic_—it also did not help that he forgot what 'acerbic' meant, despite his extended intelligence.

"I won't kill you if you, like, back the fuck away from me," he reasoned with narrowed eyes. "Like, _pronto_."

"Oh, _Kanda_!" Komui mumbled from his shoulder, tears falling down his cheeks. The Japanese teenager had to swallow back his anger, with his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. "I heard all about your loss, and I am entirely sympathetic with you—I'm sorry for all those times I put fluoxetine in your food whenever you ate dinner here!"

"What?" Kanda demanded, prying the man off with some effort. "What loss?" He froze. "Wait, _fluorine_? You put _fluorine_ in my _food_? Holy _shit_—" The guy was trying to clean his _teeth_ in his _dinner_? That is fucking _insane_!

"Not _fluorine_," Komui corrected, waggling a finger. "_Fluoxetine_."

"What the fuck is fluo-ex-whatever?"

And, this is where the Chinese freak coughed into his fist. Kanda knew that was trouble the moment he saw the beginning of the motion. "Anti-depressants?" he answered, smiling brightly.

Kanda's blue eyes widened, and he gaped. "You, you put _anti-depressants_," he started slowly, choking back more extreme animosity. "_Anti-depressants_. In my food."

"I mean, it was a few years ago, it was in extremely small doses—except for this one time, but that was a really big failure—and you were so _angry_ and _sad_ that I _had_—"

"I'm always angry!" Kanda exclaimed, raking his fingers through his long hair shakily. He was being _drugged_ without even knowing it! This world is really screwed up when shit like that happens. "Have you ever seen a time when I _wasn't_ pissed, skeezer?"

Komui chuckled. "As nice as it is to see you admit your problem, no," he replied, fixing his glasses. "I've never seen you, well, _un_-angry. Happy. Cool. Skippy. Whatever you kids call it these days."

"We call it marijuana," Kanda snapped, rolling his eyes. He bared his teeth angrily, because this was just some undiluted _bullshit_. "The actual _good_ drug. You just ruined my fucking _life_—I'm, like, in _mourning_ or something. Except, he's not really dead, so I guess I'm not in mourning anymore." He jabbed a finger at the older man's chest. "You got lucky this time, freak. If I were in mourning, your ass would be wherever the _moon_ is!"

"Oh, so Daisya isn't dead?" Komui asked, eyebrows raised. "Hmm. It's odd, as Marian told me the boy had gotten hit by a truck and that his funeral was in the new millennium, and that the only way you would feel better is if I gave you a big and very touchy-feely hug. Apparently, he was wrong."

Who the fuck was _Marian_? "That's a lame name," Kanda said with a cocked eyebrow. Seriously, _Marian_ was such a chick name. He honestly can't imagine why anyone with a dick would be cursed with a name like that.

"Oh, _right_," the scientist laughed. "Sorry, sorry. You might know him better as _Cross_. Allen's uncle."

"Eww," Kanda gagged. "That old man's got a gay name like that? Jesus Christ, I'd be a smoking alcoholic too if my name was _Marian_." He wasn't even pissed that the guy was spreading lies—he was obviously just spiteful because he had the gayest name of the _century_.

Komui snickered. "I'd love to see you say that to his face," he replied jauntily. The man moved out the way of his front doorframe, motioning Kanda inside with a flip of his wrist. "But, I'm pretty sure you aren't here to talk to me—"

"I'd pretty much kill myself if that was the deal," Kanda agreed, stepping inside while roughly pushing pass the Chinese man.

"—and your band members are in the garage," Komui continued without missing a beat. He was far too used to this kind of treatment. "So, go on. Do whatever it is that makes you happy—as long as it does not include touching Lenalee, because neutering a teenage male isn't _rocket science_."

"Dude, don't talk about my balls. _Please_." Kanda emphasized this with a look of acute disgust and he walked faster through the living room. "Freak." In a few strides, he had made it to the door leading to his favorite (but this was questionable) place so far.

"Did I ever tell you that you're the son I'd rather commit suicide than have if necessary?" Komui called after him, laughter in his voice.

The guitarist flipped up his middle finger, reaching out to touch the doorknob with his other hand.

It had only been a few days since he came to band practice or answered his phone, so Lenalee probably would just smile, Allen would make a hypocritical gay joke, and Lavi would pat him on the back or some gay shit like that.

So, yeah, he thought them all to be pretty predictable. Which means that he wasn't expecting firecrackers when he opened the door—because that would be _stupid_.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas, man!" Lavi cheered, holding a lit Roman candle just inches away from his face. "But, don't bug out, because I know it's not Christmas—I don't celebrate the holiday _anyway_—and you aren't merry, so yeah!" The redhead blew out the sparks in Kanda's face, grinning. "It's great to have you back, buddy." He held out his arms in an open invitation for a hug.

Kanda rejected it violently, shoving his friend down the short steps. "I'll kick your ass if you put another firecracker in my face," he said, walking over Lavi's groaning body.

Lenalee was next in his line of vision, and she put out her firecracker pretty quickly. He almost loved the way she caught on fast, because it made her one of the two _not_-idiots he was forced to hang around.

"Hey, Andy," she greeted with a grin, throwing the blank Roman candle behind her. The girl stepped in front of him, and she held up a jewelry-decorated hand to pet the top of his head. "Red's right—it _is_ great to see you again! Why'd you come back anyway?"

"Ran out of weed," Kanda answered honestly, shrugging. "And, to tell the truth, I've really got nothing better to do." He looked around, frowning. "Where's the brat?"

Lenalee blinked in surprise. "Allen?" she replied. "Allen, uh, Allen's been missing as long as you have. I seriously thought you guys were banging for the first two days, because that was, like, the _only_ logical explanation."

"_What_?" Kanda demanded, a small twitch in his eye. "That's the most bogus explanation I've ever heard!"

"Yeah, well, Lavi agreed."

Lavi sat up, rubbing his head and wincing in pain. "You guys are fucking _gay_," he explained. "Fuck, you can't get pissed at us because we put two and two together, and the equation ended up being your total faggo' fiasco." He snickered through the ache in his body.

"Cyclops doesn't have a right to say _jack_ about _me_ and the punk," Kanda retorted, sneering at the mere thought of it. "Especially when he fucking sits in the backseat of my van just to be the Berlin wall for the kid when I hit a bump." He smirked.

Lavi cocked an eyebrow. "Dude, you can compare me to, like, a bunch of other shit, because the Berlin Wall is seriously not cool."

"Yeah, whatever." The Japanese teenager waved a hand in dismissal. He didn't give a damn about communism and 'containment'—he found the whole _Cold War_ thing to be pretty stupid as well. It should've never even happened, in his totally wanted opinion. "And the kid hasn't shown up in forever, you're telling me?"

"Pretty much." Lenalee sighed dramatically, leaning against Kanda's chest heavily. He stood up straighter—she was really heavier than she looked! "I tried calling him! But, he didn't answer his phone, and his dog didn't tell me where he went."

Wait, _what_? "Whoa," Kanda started, eyebrows raising. "The _dog_ answers phones now? That's fucking insane."

"Timcanpy is _excellent_!" Lavi proclaimed, standing up on shaky legs. He brushed off the back of his jeans, patting his back pockets while winking—or something to that degree—at Kanda. "You'd never see a better dog, or even a better Brit of an owner!"

"I could name a billion better British freaks," Kanda retorted, taking a step towards the gray couch on the other side of the garage. Lenalee stumbled a bit at the movement, and he caught her with an outstretched arm.

The redhead cocked an eyebrow, smiling. "Like who, Yuu?" he asked challengingly. "_Billy Idol_?"

"What the fuck—_eww_, no!" Kanda grimaced in disgust. There was really no gauge to his dislike of the English rock star, or his stupid music about _White Weddings_ and _Dancing With Myself_. "Like, that guy from The Beatles. And that _other_ gay—I meant guy—from The Beatles. There was also that one fag from The Cure, or was it The Sex Pistols?"

Lavi grinned. "Do you even know any of these people's names?" he replied, rolling his single eye. "Ooo, _better_ question: Do you even know our own _personal_ Brit's name? Because I don't think you do."

The Japanese teenager frowned, affronted. "Uh, _doy_," he said in a rather uppity kind of way. "It's. Um." He paused, rubbing his chin with calloused fingers. "_Um._ Uh, shit, give me a moment." He turned around and began to pace the garage, humming underneath his breath and furrowing his eyebrows in deep thought.

Lenalee shook her head. "Oh, _Kanda_," she murmured fondly, placing her hands upon his hips. "You are _such_ a bunk for this."

Lavi shrugged. "It's been a little over six months—I think that's more than enough time to learn someone's name, fer sure. Can you relate, Missus Lee?" he asked, smirking.

The Chinese girl looked at him oddly. "Uh," she started slowly. "I seriously don't think he knows your name either. Like, everyday, you aren't _Lavi_ to him—you're, like, _Cyclops_ and _One-Eyed Willy_ and _Dickhead_ and all that kind of sh—stuff." She censored herself immediately, because her brother had supersonic hearing or something entirely unhelpful to her general existence like that.

Lavi opened his mouth to retort—it was on the tip of his tongue, too—but he could not argue with such _logic_. "He's _had_ to've said my name at some point, I mean _really_," he said, but no matter how far back he went down memory lane, Kanda never once took the time out of his life to say his real name. This was so _bogus_.

"Keep diggin' Watson," Lenalee replied sympathetically, patting her friend's back with a smile. "Who knows—maybe I'm just bugging."

Kanda pivoted on his heel, arms crossed. "It's Alonzo," he said confidently. "Even though the brat doesn't even look like an Alonzo—Christ, his uncle has some _mega_ name-game spite going on in his life." He snorted, remembering the man's name once more. "Marian!"

The garage door swung open for the second time that day, and Allen leaned in, holding the doorway with his wrinkled red hand. "'ello," he greeted with a flash of a smile, cocking an eyebrow. "Did someone mention my uncle?"

Lavi shrugged. "Hell if I know," he said, and he ran his fingers through his thick brush of hair. "Al, baby, why do you make me feel the way I _feel_?" He waited three seconds. "Because, it feels like the longer we're separated," Lavi stated dramatically, sighing heavily. "The more I go, man, Shakespeare was right—absence really _does_ make the heart grow fonder, and all that shit."

Allen hopped from the top of the stairs to the ground of the garage, brushing off his fitted black shirt as though dust might've somehow touched it in the ten seconds he's been in the garage. "A good day to you too, Lavi," he replied, patting his friend on the cheek.

Lenalee just about tripped over her shoes to get to the youngest band member, arms wide. Allen caught her embrace as it came, wrapping his own arms around her back. "Where've you _been_?!" she demanded. "We've been trying to get in touch with you _and_ Kanda, big time!"

"Well," the British teenager replied, pulling a pair of headphones down from his ears. He shrugged. "I was in Paris. My uncle and I had to pull off the biggest heist of our lives—we were surrounded by three of the biggest men I'd seen since Skin Boric! I almost died, dearest Lenalee." He sighed heavily. "Luckily, though, my uncle was able to put his gun to good use and we made it out of there just before the time bomb hit zero!"

Kanda narrowed his eyes, sniffing. "Leave it to the British to make up a stupidly bogus lie when all you had to say was that you went _shopping_," he retorted. "God, your voice is fucking _irritating_."

"I love the way your vocabulary has increased in our separation," replied Allen with a smile. "Big words, they're really quite nice, don't you agree?" He licked his dry lips, releasing Lenalee. And, wow, did she get shorter? "Although, I'm only a little bothered with how you know I went shopping. Are you hiding something from me, _dear_?" He pronounced the word slowly, thick with sarcasm, because he _knew_ it would succeed in pissing Kanda off.

Lavi placed a hand on his hair, ruffling the white locks and grinning as though he knew everything the world had to offer. "First thing," he said. "It's most definitely easy to tell you went shopping because your Converse look _brand new_ and squeaky-fuckin' clean. That's unnatural." He glanced at the black shoes, gagging at the shiny white toes of the sneakers. "Secondly—"

"Your goddamn pants got tighter," Kanda interjected, rolling his eyes. "Jesus Christ, kid—can you even breathe? I mean, what size do you wear in pants anyway?"

Allen frowned. "A twenty. Why?"

"Now, in actual _men's_ clothing—ow!" the Japanese young man rubbed his arm, scowling. "Why the hell do you always hit _me_?"

"Because Allen's fragile," Lenalee replied like that was the only valid answer. "He's so skinny, he'll probably break if I punch him once."

"…But I'm not," Allen said, blinking. "My uncle teaches me self-defense—I can certainly handle quite a few knocks!" He turned to Kanda, eyes narrowed in offense. "And, please, for once can't you just say _hello_ while looking at my face instead of my arse? You too, Lavi." He threw a glare at the innocently whistling redhead.

"All right," Kanda replied, tossing loose locks of hair over his shoulder. "Then, how about you stop making your ass so goddamn interesting, then maybe you'll get your wish, Cinderella."

Allen barked a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. "So you think my arse is interesting?" he asked amusedly. "I'd never know with the way you keep _looking at my blasted pants_. If you love them so much—get a pair of your own! My _Lord_!"

Lavi hummed underneath his breath, hooking a thumb within a belt loop in the younger teenager's jeans. "They wouldn't work out on him like they do on you, sorry," he commented.

Allen rolled his eyes, ignoring quite skillfully the hand on his hip. "Well, we'll never know until we see it for ourselves," he muttered, huffing. He really was tired of everyone making unneeded comments on his backside and how every time he meets someone new, they are first to look at his hips and below rather than his face. It gets _annoying_. "I don't look at Lenalee's upper legs when she wears her obscenely short skirts, now do I?"

"As _if_!" Lenalee snorted, grinning. "You'd be murdered in, like, cold blood if you _did_ do something like that!" She paused, though, in thought. "Then again, Komui might give you a break because you're gay and obviously not interested." She sighed regretfully.

"I'm not—wait, I'm terribly sorry, but did you _want_ me to be interested?" the white-haired teenager asked, eyebrows raised in clear panic. "Because, if so: oh _dear_—"

"Dude, Brit, calm down," the seventeen-year-old attempted to calm him down, holding up her hands in a sign of harmlessness. "Look, dude, you're really cute, and you would totally make the best boyfriend ever, but I gave up on that once I realized that my boobs just weren't going to make you happy. Lavi's dick, _though_—"

"Stop!" Allen squeaked in a high-pitched octave, bringing a hand to his temple. "Please, just, _don't continue_. Oh, oh _God_ no. Lavi's _cock_? Huh!" He shuddered a bit, frowning.

"I am, uh, right here," spoke up Lavi with an affronted eye roll, flicking the boy on the back of his head. "Christ, man, you're almost as much of a jackass as _I_ am."

"I will never be as big of an arse as you," Allen retorted. "Because I am not Jewish and using the Lord Christ's name in vain. I somewhat hate you for that, by the way."

Lavi grinned harder. "Because I said _Jesus Christ_?" he asked haughtily. "I can say it again, though—and, with fuckin' awesome flair! Jesus _Christ_!"

"Shut _up_," Kanda groaned, looking like he wanted to slam his head into the wall. "Nobody _cares_—Christ, he's kind of dead. Cyclops's great granddad or whatever stoned him, brat, so just give it up and let it happen."

Allen somehow schooled his face to convey more offense than ever before, and replied, "Bite me," with a sniff.

"You probably taste like bullshit, so no thanks," the guitarist pivoted on his heel with a dismissive wave, heading to his amplifier.

And, it was really quite reasonable how Allen could not quell down the angry flush, as no matter how close they became—Kanda was inevitably a complete jackass. (And he meant that as American-like as _possible_.)

Lavi laughed, scratching the back of his neck with his long, calloused fingers. "Aw, shit," he said, leaning heavily against the smaller teenager. "Don't let the stuff he says get you pissed, Brit!" The redhead clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You've been around him long enough to know that he's a big dork inside that _loooves_ you—"

"—which means that you cancel him out as _you_ are quite the dork _outside_," Allen retorted, smiling through his irritation at certain Japanese pricks.

"And I _do_ looove you," the one-eyed teenager replied thoughtfully. He nudged. "Maybe we _do_ cancel each other out—that would be _radical_! Like, X-Men and The Hulk, Richard Nixon and the Democratic Party, or, or even…even Superman and Lex Luthor in the 1962 edition of _Superman_ in number 271!" He beamed at the mere thought of it, and then added as an afterthought, "But, see, I think you taste just fine, so that's where w-mmf!" He tried to speak around the palm on his mouth.

"Please, don't talk anymore. Because you're a pervert and because I've never read any of the comics you are talking about." Allen said with a pronounced eye roll and a hand on his very attractive—in Lavi's factual opinion—hips. "But, thank you for not being a complete jerk like your bloody BFF." He learned that term from shopping—as the female section's selection of jeans was much more fulfilling than the gaudy, loose denim in the male portion of the Gap. Not only that, but the girls were really nice and absolutely _hilarious_ with their impressions of Madonna and how they felt 'like a virgin' when he told them that those pants definitely did not make them look overly shaped.

Cross had stared at him with such a hurt and offended expression the entire time that Allen almost threw an entire clothing rack at him.

"Hey, if it makes you feel better," Lavi replied with a short shrug. "Then, I'm down with it." He playfully punched the fifteen-year-old's shoulder, grinning. "You make me happy."

Allen's eyebrows raised in contemplation, and he opened his mouth to speak, "Exc—"

"Lavi!" Komui stuck his head through the door, fixing his eyeglasses. He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the living room. "Homewrecker, your grandfather is calling you. I'd suggest you start talking as soon as possible."

He did not even have to repeat himself, as Lavi was already jumping up the stairs and the sound of his sneakers squeaking through the kitchen reverberated in the garage.

The Chinese man smiled in delight. "I'm going to go listen in on the conversation—would you like to join in, Allen?" he asked with kindly closed eyes. His spectacles seemed to glisten with the light that shined in from the kitchen, and Allen just about had to squint to look at the man.

"Um." He coughed, patting down his hair. He needed a better style for his liking, seriously. "No, no thank you. But, uh, I'm sure it will be fun?"

"Hmph," Komui huffed, hands on his hips. It was interesting to Allen how he managed to pull off not looking entirely homosexual with that pose, especially since he kind of thought the man to be gay in the beginning of his relationships with the band. "That's lame—I'm only twenty-six, Lenalee. I can still use words like _lame_," he stated, rolling his eyes at his younger sister's disgusted expression. "But, still! I thought that you'd be so much more fun, since you _are_ Marian's nephew and all!"

"Marian!" Kanda snickered lowly, back hunched over his guitar.

Allen threw him an odd look. "Well," he replied, turning back to Komui with a terse smile. "If I were anything like Cross, please believe I would not be standing in front of you right now. Because I would have killed myself a _long, long_ time ago." And, he was being really serious too.

"You're hilarious, Allen," Komui said with a laugh, his smile wide. "An absolute comedian. But, would you tell _him_ that, to his face?" He accentuated this with an accusatory look pointed towards Kanda.

Well, _yes_, actually. "But of course," the white-haired teenager said, cocking an eyebrow. "He'd beat me like I owe him money if I weren't honest with him. Then again…"

The scientist sighed, flipping his bangs out the way of his glasses. "Fine, I'll go find out why your boyfriend's grandfather is so angry-sounding by _myself_," he stated, pivoting on his heel. He snuck a look behind his shoulder, gazing at his sister with narrowed eyes. "Un_less_…"

"Fine!" Lenalee gave in, throwing her arms up in exasperation. She rolled her eyes, stepping away from Kanda. "This is so whack, just for the 411."

"You are the best little sister in the _world_," Komui replied happily, and they walked off, shutting the door with a resounding slam that echoed in Allen's sense of sound for at least thirty seconds.

He was alone. With _Kanda_, again.

Why did this keep happening to him?

"Marian," Kanda was grumbling, sticking a piece of pink Dubble Bubble into his mouth. "Fucking _fag_ name—and he wants to call _me_ Betty, che'yeah _right_!"

"And you are _still_ mumbling about my uncle's name!" Allen said, rolling his gray eyes. "Are you truly so bored today? Or, are you just lacking a life entirely?"

The Japanese teenager took the sweet time out of his life to turn around with a glare and a pink bubble of gum, popping the bubble just to say, "Shut the fuck up."

"I don't see why!" the British boy sat on the couch—stiffly, though, because he still believed the sad excuse for a piece of furniture housed _fleas_—and crossed his legs, and Kanda continued in chewing his gum while muttering about the many things that offended him underneath his breath. "Oh, so you aren't talking, now?"

"Why would I _ever_ talk to you?" Kanda retorted, cocking a painstakingly slow eyebrow.

_Kanda is an arsehole_, Allen began a mantra in his mind. _He_ _doesn't have a brain. Kanda is an _arsehole_._

"Hey, Kanda," he spoke up, really just to see if he could somehow get the older teen to hold a conversation with him again. Those are really quite fun, and also enlightening!

Another pink bubble popped, and Allen could not believe how aggravating Kanda made even _bubblegum_ seem. "What the _fuck_ do you want, brat?" he asked slowly, chewing between words.

Oh, how Allen wished he was the type of person to curse with no restrictions. "I never did thank you for your kind patch of friendship in regards of Lavi and I," he replied, smiling.

"_Kind patch of friendship_?" Kanda repeated, disgust etched within his mimicking words. "Punk, I didn't do it for _you_." He turned back around, bent over the amplifier and his hair falling in a curtain over the side of his face. "Cyclops was being such a _bitch_ about it—you should'a seen it, really. I wanted to push him into fucking _traffic_, it was so insane. I _had_ to get Fag One and Fag Three back together somehow."

"I'm not gay—and who is Fag Two, then?" It was painfully obvious that he was apparently Fag One.

"Fag Two is the Puerto Rican guy that's always following you around—what's his name, uh, _Mark_—because he's a bigger fag than Cyclops, but doesn't wear girl clothing like _you_ do."

And, yes, that was really Kanda's logic.

"Yes, okay." Allen's smile twitched, and he breathed slowly. "We were never together, for _your_ gen."

"Yeah, _yeah_. If you keep telling yourself that," Kanda replied with a smirk. "You just might actually believe it, loser. So, like, what do you pray at night? 'Dear Jesus Christ in the sky—please make me straight!'" A small _Cosmo_ magazine hit him dead in the face, and he retracted in shock. "Real fuckin' mature, brat."

"Like you can talk about ruddy _maturity_, sweetheart," Allen retorted, grinning. He ducked the same magazine's projectile in his direction. "Well then, Kan_da_," he called with a lilted tone.

"Oh _God_, what the hell do you _want_ from me?"

"Since you _supposedly_ hate my accent—"

"What? _Supposedly_? Punk-ass _bit_—" Kanda stopped himself just in time, his expression twisting as though he tasted something absolutely gross. "—there's nothing _supposed_ about it, geek. Your voice gives me a tumor, I hate it so hard."

Allen smiled harder. "Well," he continued, revolving his wrist in an offhanded manner. "When Lavi apologized to me during school all those months ago, he said that you told him that he was a, quote and unquote, '_bloody cool guy_.'"

"Why do you keep fucking _existing_, skeezer?"

"So…?"

"So _what_?" the Japanese teenager demanded, unimpressed.

"How exactly did he know that I told you?"

Kanda rolled his eyes in a Madonna kind of way. "Lo-se-er," he enunciated, clicking his tongue in disdain. "How did you get out of middle school, kid?" He plucked a string on his guitar, leaning back in his seat. "You just said that I told him—so how the fuck _else_ would he know? Better yet, don't even talk, or I will choke you with this guitar string." He gave it a pointed look.

"But, he would've only known those exact words if you had _said_ those exact words," Allen continued, brushing off the threat. He never really took those threats seriously anymore—he learned that Kanda was actually nicer than he let on. One just had to, well, _look_ for it. "It's blatant that you don't hate my accent nearly as much as you let on."

"_Bloody 'ell_," Kanda replied as mockingly as humanly possible. "Whot made'ya think _that_, twit?" He sneered. "Shut the fuck up, Eurofag."

"If anything," Allen uncrossed his legs and ran a pale finger over his lips, smirking. "I'd think that you _loved_ my accent."

Kanda's eyes widened comically, and he almost dropped his precious guitar with how fast he held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he started, scowling. "As _if._ Nobody _loves_ you, freak. So, yeah, feel free to bag your face about whatever shit you're talking about, because I'm getting a hernia listening to your _stupid_ accent."

"Mm _hmm_," the white-haired teenager hummed victoriously, arms crossed. "If you say so, Kanda."

* * *

YEAH SHORT CHAPTER THAT ONLY SPANS ON ONE DAY I KNOW D:

Emi is very sad at me because I get the most random bouts of writer's block. But, it's over now! :D THANK GOD FOR HETALIA

Thing is: I actually really like this chapter. :) Except for the beginning, because I was forcing myself to write then, and nothing is ever good when I force it upon myself to go through with it. But, after the forcing and such, I got into the chapter, like, really into it, and found a flow of which I could work with. Next chapter, though, will be faster and better, because now we know what the hell is going on in these dull few remaining days of July, and the beginning of August. Kind of.

Oh, OH: Everyone! D: Let us all fight to STOP PLAGIARISM. It _isn't cool_—I swear to god it isn't. Let's make this a better and more respected website, let's stop the stupid thievery. D: I am RIGHTEOUSLY ANGRY.

(I SUCK LOL YOU ALL KNOW WHY THE KAZA SUCKS DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT)

Shout outs: Tuli-Susi! Because she really loves this fanfic for what it is, and what it is coming to be! She wrote a small drabble in my writing style in the AWYWI universe, and I added it because it was really awesome! :D I'm proud, I'm really proud!  
And, another to Abreaction! Because, like, she _exists_. :3  
One more to Kadaj-Souba FOR BEING THE MOST AWESOME AND UNDERSTANDING IRISH PERSON EVER :D SHE CORRECTS MY BRITISH SLANG, GUYS! DO YOU KNOW HOW AMAZING THAT IS? HOW _USEFUL_ THAT IS? :D:D:D:D:D:D:D

Oh, and speaking of British slang: if thou wants a feel for Allen's accent, just know that I listen to the Spice Girls quite constantly. And I am not ashamed at all. YO I'LL TELL YA WHAT I WANT WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!

(we can dance if you want to~!)


	29. A Message To You Rudy

_TWENTY-NINE_

August 1st, 1985.

Cross, for the longest time, actually believed that he could understand women better than most of the female gender could understand themselves.

Yet, much to his _delightful_ surprise, as he spent his summer boredom listening in on his nephew's—but he was about to be downgraded to niece—telephone conversation, he discovered that maybe even a rocket scientist could be wrong. Somehow.

"—_it's the next best thing since the end of the Vietnam War, my British boyfriend_," Lee's younger sister—Xingli, if Cross remembered correctly—said confidently over the telephone line. "_And, by boyfriend, I mean a friend that is a boy, can you relate?_"

"Surely," Allen replied with a short laugh from the dining room, as Cross was only in the living room listening in secretly. Well, maybe it wasn't that secret, as it felt like Allen might've caught on that he wasn't the only person in this house on the phone. But, whatever—Cross could do whatever the hell he wanted. He paid the bills, to a degree. "Now I'm curious—what could possibly have you so happy and be better than the Vietnam War's closing, Lenalee?"

Lenalee—oh, so _that_ was her name—clicked her tongue. "_And here I was thinking you'd never ask, Brit Ol' Boy_," she said. "_To be quick and easy about it: we are in the _green_!"_ She laughed, delighted. "_And I don't mean smoking weed, because every rock band has a guitarist that does it. Really!_"

"But, we're New Wave—"

"_New Wave, Twisted Sister, same difference. Geez!_" Lenalee huffed, and Cross could only assume she did that hand-on-the-hip thing that Lee used to do when he was an associate of Cross's. "_But!_ _We—the ever-elite Black Order—have gotten the most excellent OK-Go for the B-O-T-B show!_"

What the hell was this girl _talking_ about? Cross couldn't understand any of the words pouring out of her mouth, let alone the godforsaken use of Gen X slang mostly unfamiliar to his existence as a Baby Boom Generation kind of man.

It did not help that his idiotic neph—niece, _niece_ now—could apparently process every word like a Macintosh. Cross resisted the want to sniff in disdain. Fuck this generation—they wouldn't know _truly _awesome music if it punched them in the face and left them for dead. Like, _Kansas_ or _The Cars_, because those bands were _great_ when he was in high school.

"Blinding!" Allen exclaimed, and it was official that Cross was going to put the teenaged girl into some Americanizing classes or something. Maybe he could get Howard to teach the punk? Better yet—Timcanpy. The brat listens to the _dog_ more than he listens to his own _uncle_—how messed up is that? "You are most _certainly_ the man, Lenalee!"

Lenalee laughed again. "_I'll take that as a compliment, zeek,_" she retorted. The sound of papers rustling in the background was audible over the line, and she spoke up again, "_So, yeah, it's fu—freaking A, right? Right! And, the date is September 6__th__, which is fresh because if we, like, need to, we can leg outta school with Jap and Jew, it'll be a Friday. But, it's also totally harsh too, because we need to get our junk together A-S-A-P._"

"Right-o," the British teenager replied. Cross furrowed his eyebrows, pushing his glasses higher upon the bridge of his nose. He seriously did not enjoy being confused like this. "Speaking of our _junk_, I must know something—am I playing an arpeggio with the beginning C rift on the song, erm," He hummed in thought, shuffling his feet. "_Untitled Song Number Three Hundred and Forty-Nine_?"

"_Arpeggio? Most definitely—that'll give the sound more heart. But, not on the C rift, try it on the D keys instead. Oh, and that song is actually called _She's on Fire_ now,_" Lenalee said, audibly amused. "_But, it's mega-cool how you remember all those song name numbers like that! I mean, I thought Lavi did it just to be a jackass—he does that a lot, seriously—but then he was all, 'Naw, I name them like that because I suck at naming things—I've gone through, like, forty-eight nicknames before stickin' with Lavi, which is my real name' and I was like 'Dude, why are _we_ suffering, though?_'_ and he said 'Because I love you, baby!' and then Komui_—"

Allen interrupted her in the polite way only he could possibly pull off. "I'm truly sorry," he started, and Cross had a feeling that one of his eyebrows were raised in question. _Fag_. "But, he calls you baby too?" Hopefully the red-haired man was mishearing it, but there seemed to be a note of displeasure in his tone.

"_What? Oh, that?_" the seventeen-year-old chuckled. "_That was just a joke between us! Don't sweat, Al—I'm not trying to get between you and your man. None of them._"

"Oh goddamn kid, she said _none of them_," Cross muttered rather loudly, trying not to snicker. "Even _girls_ know how fucking gay you are."

"…_Who the hell is that_?" Lenalee asked slowly, while Allen leaned over and spotted his uncle holding the phone to his ear without a care in the world. It was _his_ house; he could eavesdrop on whatever phone conversation he _wanted_ to! "_Was that, like, your super-sexy uncle?_"

Allen's right eye formed a small tick, and he threw a small glare at the red-haired man, flipping his bangs out the way of his eyes. "I don't know if I have any of those, dear," he replied. "On the other hand, I _do_ have a rude, alcoholic uncle in my possession that keeps _existing_. Did you enjoy my conversation, Cross?"

"I sure did," Cross said loudly, flipping the middle finger at the kid. Now _that_ was something both their generations could agree on and understand perfectly. "But, just one question: what the fuck are you two girls talking about? Legging outta school?" He lowered his glasses, eyes narrowed.

His neph—niece—paused, swallowing like his words were caught in his fag mouth. "Uh, err—" he coughed into his fist, looking at the phone as though it might've been able to save him. "Well, uh, Lenalee?"

"_Hey!_" said girl suddenly exclaimed. "_I've, uh, I've got to call you back, Al. My brother is, is slacking off work or something. Komui! You need to finish those blueprints!_" And the line went dead.

Allen hung up the phone on its hook with a sigh, shaking his head. "Oh, _bugger_ all," he muttered.

"You can bugger all day," Cross said with a short shrug, and he took a few steps to the side. Plopping on the couch, the man gave the loveseat adjacent to him a significant look that translated to 'sit your gay ass down—I don't care if it hurts to walk' and Allen sighed again. "But, I've got all the time in the world." He stretched his arms. "Now, where are my cigarettes?"

"In your front right pocket, uncle," the white-haired boy replied, sitting down on the loveseat and crossing his legs. Where the blast was Timcanpy, Allen wondered secretly.

Cross slid his hand into that pocket, and pulled out a rather crinkled pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. "Thank God you're good for _some_ shit," he said, thumping out a thin stick and placing it in his mouth with practiced ease. He paused, eyebrows furrowing. "Fuck, now where's my lighter?"

"Ugh," Allen groaned, reaching into his own exceedingly tight pants pocket and pulling out a small yellow lighter. He leaned over the loveseat and flicked the ignition, rolling his eyes at the way Cross moved his body closer to the small flame just to increase his chances for lung cancer.

"I should sell you to the circus, I swear to God," Cross muttered around the thin stick of tobacco between his lips. "You just don't _know_ how talented you are."

"…" Allen brought a hand to his temple, sighing. It was quickly becoming a trend for him. "Do you even know what instrument I play?"

"What the fuck?" the redhead said, cocking a thin eyebrow. "Who said that _you're_ the one allowed to Question and Answer me, punk?" He snorted, moving loose strands of long red hair out the way of his eyes. "I'm still waiting to hear about this _skipping school_ shit—since when did you become such a bad boy, brat? Do I have to buy you a motorcycle and play fifties rock music while you ride around with your Chinese girlfriend—and by that I mean a _friend_ who is a _girl_—" Wow, Cross really could mock a teenage girl with precision. "—ride around Los Angeles and beat up high school bullies?"

Allen really just stared at him for a moment, eyes squinted as he tried to make sense of his uncle's forever enigmatic logic. "For one," he began, failing at fighting off the smile on his lips. "This isn't a _Rebel Without a Cause_ situation—my name isn't James Dean, in case you didn't know. Secondly, we're not _skipping_ school—we're, uh," And then, he went stereotypical Englishman on Cross. "Erm, going to school and perhaps leaving early if the situation forces us to which hopefully it will not as I do value my education over my life and perhaps it would be in both of our interests if we avoided discussion of _why_ we are necessarily considering becoming truants as you simply would not understand the dynamics of being in a band and doing band-related things such as playing the synthesizer or fighting off the advances of Lavi by the way the phone company called asking if your refrigerator was running and I said yes and they told me to catch it and is that _not_ the funniest bloody joke you had ever heard?"

Cross rolled his eyes, pulling the cigarette from between his lips and thumping out the ashes on the floor to spite the kid who cleans up the house—also known as his niece. "Nice try, brat," he said, smirking at the dismayed expression of the boy. "Now, tell me what's going on—in _my_ language. We're talkin' teleological, so get straight to the point."

"…Oh, blast it," Allen gave up, leaning back in his seat. "The band I am in—the _Black Order_, as you might know—well, we would like to participate in a certain event, but—"

"What's the event _called_, smartass?"

"Well, I _never_!" the teenager sniffed in offense, crossing his arms. "It's called the Battle of the Bands—a very popular thing for the musical world."

Cross hummed in thought, tapping his fingers on the armrest rhythmically. "Where is it?" he finally asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"…Lithonia, Georgia?"

"The _fuck_?" Cross scowled. "You're gonna go all the way to _Georgia_ to play the _violin_—"

"Synthesizer," Allen corrected with a raised eyebrow. "I play the synthesizer."

"Synthesizer, cello, same fucking _thing_," the bespectacled man retorted, leaning over just to smack the boy. The sound's reverberation was quite soothing, and he did it again just for the sake of hearing the kid yelp. "And you were going to go all that way with no damn parental supervision?"

"That argument would actually be more effective if you were, let's see here, my _parent_—_ow_! Good Lord, sir!" Allen whined, rubbing the top of his head. "You are messing up my _hair_."

The man blew puffs of smoke from his nostrils, crossing his legs. "That's what happens when you're a bitch, kid," he replied. "You get smacked around. Consider it a life lesson—for _free_."

"Nothing in this world is free," Allen muttered, looking down at the dark red carpet. He sighed. "Why must I always go off-topic when I talk to you, uncle?"

Cross shrugged. "We wouldn't go off topic if you weren't taking it up the ass," he replied easily.

"That has nothing to do with anyth—"

"Whatever. Oh, right, and _no_." Cross smiled at him, straightening his legs and standing up on the plush fabric of the carpet.

Allen looked up at his uncle, still rather awed at the man's imposing height. "What do you mean by _no_?" he asked, eyes wide.

"I mean, _no_, you can't go _fagging_ in Georgia, punk." He started to walk away, and the white-haired teenager just about shot up in shock, almost tripping over his own socked feet to get to his uncle.

"Why the bloody hell _not_?" Allen demanded, affronted. Then, he smacked his hand over his mouth, regretting his moment of manner-weakness. "I mean, is there a particular reason for your rejection of my going?"

"First thing," Cross started, pivoting on his heel and causing the boy to bump his chin against his ribs in surprise. "You're ten, kid. You think that _I_ look good when people start going, 'oh, where's your niece?' and I'm gonna be all 'oh, I just let her go on a road trip with some pot-smoking Reagan-hating college students, and she's only twelve!' Because I don't look good. At _all_." When he spoke, Allen noted distractedly, wisps of smoke escaped his lips in the most _intriguing_ of shapes. "The ladies don't like bad parents."

"Once again—this argument would be more effective—sir, could you please not hit me?" Allen asked, flinching and holding up an arm for protection.

Cross sneered, lowering his arm. What a _wimp_—he needed to toughen up, and pronto. "Secondly, why the _fuck_ would I let you go on a nine-hour road trip on a school day? Who the hell do you take me for—a yuppie?"

"…" Allen looked away, rubbing at his red arm and biting at his bottom lip. Cross smacked him just for not answering, because that was the wrong answer anyway. "_Ouch_!"

"And, lastly," the redhead said, flicking his fingers against the boy's forehead. "You'd be gone for, what, a weekend?"

"Yes—we'd be back by that Sunday night." Allen replied, rubbing his forehead with a small pout.

"Yeah, you'd be gone with a _weekend_ with two guys who I _know_ are gay for you, not to mention how you'll probably be around more of your Gay Pride kind." Cross smirked. "You know the best way to stop this AIDS epidemic? Do it the Truman way—_containment_. Don't let it spread; do you catch my drift, kid?"

"Actually, the term is '_can you relate_,'" the British teenager corrected, smiling tersely. "But, yes, I do catch your drift." He placed a hand on his hip and sighed tiredly, flipping his wayward bangs out the way of his eyes again. "I've also come to the conclusion that you're a complete jackarse. Cheers!" The boy turned and walked swiftly towards the stairs, presumably so he could go do something drastic in his room.

Like, Cross mused in amusement, write in his diary or something.

----

August 2nd, 1985.

"You can't come?" Lenalee demanded, eyes wide. "W-why?!"

"Because his uncle's a fucking douche," Kanda replied, chewing another piece of gum in a bored manner. "I mean, _duh_."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Allen said with a smile. "Never have I seen a bigger wanker—please, feel free to wipe that disturbing look off your face, _Kan-da_." He sniffed in disdain, tapping his index finger against the D key on his beloved synthesizer. "I mean, I understand his logic—for the first time ever, by the way—because I'm only fifteen and—"

Lenalee was quick to thump the microphone on his forehead, making a small "harrumph" sound in displeasure. "I don't care _how_ absolutely _hot_ your uncle is!" she retorted, rolling her eyes at the affronted expression on her younger friend's face. "You're just gonna let him mess with our big chance like this? _For real_?"

Allen rubbed his forehead, furrowing his eyebrows. Did nobody realize that brain cells are hard to come by once they're gone? "Surely I am not holding you back," he said with a quirky smile. "If you need to, why don't you use another pianist—"

He fell into silence once the Chinese singer retracted her arm, giving him the single most dangerous expression he'd ever seen on a woman, and Allen had this itching feeling that he might've done something wrong.

"Go for the left eye," offered Kanda to Allen's exasperated and exceedingly sarcastic delight. "It's mad tacky when people don't match—don't you agree, Lenalee?"

"T-_twit_," the fifteen-year-old hissed, and the microphone was bopped on top of his head again.

"There's outrageous," Lenalee said with a frown. "There's totally _whack_—but then again, there's _you_." She swung her microphone by the cord in a pendulum motion, straightening his posture. "Sometimes, Allen, it feels like _you_ might not get it, get it?"

"Um." Allen dropped his smile. Now that he sat on his stool silently, he felt like he would rather be punched in the eye. "I, I apologize—"

Kanda snickered with a smirk, while Lenalee threw him an incredulous look.

"You—you _seriously_ said sorry?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"Looks like you're in some shit now, kid," Kanda commented and Allen swore to his Lord above that the prick will _get his_ in a pre-wrapped package, _really_.

Allen sighed, "No, I don't mean I'm sorry," he replied.

"Then," Lenalee said, arms crossed and her microphone hanging by the single line of wire. "What are you?"

"I—"

"—am a selfish _jerk_." She frowned. "Dude—I can't believe it, but you really _don't_ get it."

And, just to be a complete _jackarse_, Kanda strummed a few chords on his guitar, humming.

"You're so _treacherous_," he spoke the lyrics on rhythm. "When it comes to tenderness—_fuck!_ That _hurt_!" He picked up the hardcover book that hit his forehead, scowling.

Allen sneered. "I'd hope it did," he replied as he crossed his arms. He didn't understand what he might've done to offend Lenalee—he was only trying to think of the band's success over his happiness.

Lenalee paced around the garage, her heels tapping loudly and her bangles clicking with each small motion. "Kanda!" she started, swiveling on her heel in the way only a girl can. "Where's Lavi?"

"Right," Kanda replied with a pronounce eye-roll. "Because I would totally care about his existence and where he decides to spend it—_totally_."

"Okay, smartass—" she sighed heavily, like she was so tired of living this life. "Well, we can't practice to the max when we're missing, like, our drummer."

Allen held up a hand. "I believe he went to work today," he spoke up cautiously, because Lenalee looked at him with narrowed eyes.

("_Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_," quoted William Congreve, and Allen found it insanely applicable to even today's world.)

"Work, huh?" she repeated, tapping a finger on her lip. "Well, why didn't you speak up earlier…or are you just being spiteful?" She narrowed her eyes.

_Spiteful_? Allen cocked an eyebrow; _he_ was the one being spiteful? "I'm sorry, but are you on your period—_ouch!_" Okay, he knew better than to ask _any_ woman that question, because getting hit by the same hardcover book he threw at Kanda was a minor punishment in comparison to what most _other_ women might've done. He's seen it happen to Cross a few times, so he really should have kept his stupid mouth shut.

Several guitar chords were plucked at again, and then _Kanda_ had to open _his_ significantly _stupider_ mouth. "And who was wrong?" he said—well, attempted to sing—in his _stupid_ baritone. "And who was right? It didn't matter in the thick of the fight…"

"Would it _kill_ you to shut the bloody hell up sometimes?" Allen demanded calmly. "Because, if it won't, _I will_."

"What was that?" Kanda asked loudly, smirking. "You said you got told off by a girl? Well, _duh_, because you're a total skeezer, _skeezer_. I bet you'd lose a fight against Lenalee, too."

Allen _hated_ instigators. "Well, we'll probably never find out, now will we, you arse?"

"I don't _know_—"

There was a short knock on the door leading into the house, and the three teenagers paused.

Komui cracked it open, grinning. "Why _hello_ children," he greeted. "I know you guys are busy having a Brady Bunch-esque falling out, but your drummer is on the phone." The smile widened. "He sounds panicked."

Allen stood up at that, stepping from behind his synthesizer. "Why?" he asked.

"It sounds like babble to me," Komui replied, opening the door further. "But! I did understand the word _phone_ within his garbled language. Perhaps he reverted to his Hebrew ways?"

"That would be a nightmare," Lenalee said with a grimace. "And mega-bunk. And _freaky_—really freaky."

Kanda placed his guitar on its stand, rising up from his seat as well. "I just imagined him wearing those crazy Jew hats and those gay-ass Jew scarves—whoa, my head hurts," he said with a wince.

"That's because your brain is actually not used to you using so much of it at one time," Allen said offhandedly, hopping up the stairs to get to the phone in the living room.

"…_Fuck_ you," because Kanda knew he walked right into that one.

Komui rolled his eyes behind his glasses. "Would it hurt you to cut back on the profanity, Kanda?" he asked, sighing.

"Would it hurt you to put anti-depressants in your _own_ goddamn food?" Kanda snapped back, and Allen wondered what the bloody hell they were talking about.

"Now it feels like you will never let that go," Komui replied with a smile. "Maybe I should've never told you."

"Do you _serious_ly think?"

Allen came to a stop in front of the cream-colored telephone, and he considered picking it up first. But, this was not his house, and doing so would probably be considered rude—especially with Lenalee so unnecessarily _narked_ at him.

"Pick up the stupid phone, Allen!" Lenalee said sternly, rolling her eyes.

"Um." He nodded, keeping a wary eye on the girl as he brought the telephone to his ear. "Hello?" he greeted slowly.

"_Oh, fuck, yes!_" Lavi's exuberant tone answered, and Allen couldn't help but smile. "_The Brit, he loves me! You do love me, right?_"

"Uh—"

"_Because if you did, you'd get me the hell out of Albuquerque—I'm scared out of my fucking wits, man. There are _black people_ here, and they've got these big-ass boomboxes that are most _excellently_ the shit—but they're lookin' at my Converse like I'm gonna get jacked! But, on the trippendicular side—I'm on a portable phone!_"

"What's he saying?" Lenalee asked curiously, and Allen tried to keep his laughter down as he spoke.

"He's apparently surrounded by black people," he replied with a smile. "And they are going to filch his shoes. Oh, and he's on a portable phone."

"Like, a phone that is not connected to a wire?" Lenalee demanded, an eyebrow cocked. "That's mega-insane."

"_Dude, I'm dead serious here—like, a walking skeleton, you've gotta believe me! I am on a _portable phone_!_" Lavi insisted. "_It's big as hell and makes weird noises, but it works all the same—it even has a _number_."_

Allen snickered. "You're delusional, Lavi."

"_Naw, I'm trapped in a city with black people and a _portable phone_!_"

"Tell him he's an idiot," Kanda offered. "And that we don't believe him."

"Kanda says you're an idiot and that he doesn't believe you," the British boy said onto the phone.

Lavi snorted. "_Well, tell Yuu that we can have a jam party at this beach. By the way, jam party means a fight,_" he said as though Allen might be an idiot.

The British teenager ignored that. "And you're in _Albuquerque_?" Allen asked suspiciously.

"_No—that's just a figure of speech, my ever-attractive boyfriend,_" the older teenager replied. "_It's from the Bugs Bunny cartoons—can you relate? Like, if Bugs went off track, he'd say some shit like 'should'a made a turn at Albuquerque!' and then—_"

"Then where _are_ you if you aren't in Albuquerque?"

"_What? Oh, Newport News. But—it's scary, kid!_" Lavi whined. "_I consider myself pretty open and shit, but I'm not too hot on being the major minority. And by minority, I mean the only white kid for, like, _miles_. Please be my other white kid?_"

Allen shook his head. "I'm not white, I'm European," he replied. "And, besides, you know that I can't drive—I'm not even a citizen of the United States of America!"

Lenalee held out her pale palm, rolling her dark eyes. "Give me the phone," she commanded.

The younger teenager gave it up immediately, not necessarily wanting to make her any angrier than he already had.

"Hey, _Lavi_," Lenalee started, tapping her foot on the carpeted floor. "Where? …Oh, oh _man_, you are some ways away, my sexy redhead friend."

"Where is he?" Kanda asked with such a pained sigh that this blatantly wasn't the first time Lavi had ended up in some faraway, weird place with black people.

Lenalee covered the mouthpiece of the phone. "He says he's in Newport News and he ended up there because he took the _wrong_ bus when he was trying to get to Downtown," she explained.

"…" Allen stared at the phone. "_What_?"

Kanda narrowed his eyes. "So, what does he want?" he asked.

"What do you want?" Lenalee asked onto the phone, and the panicked squabbling of Lavi was rather difficult for Allen to understand. "Oh. _Oh_. Um," she held the phone out to Allen, sighing. "You're good at understanding the stuff he says—don't you know, like, nine different languages?"

"Even if I did," Allen replied with raised eyebrows. "Hebrew would _not_ be one of them. Hello?"

"_Okay, one day, you're gonna have to get over the fact that my religion is awesome,_" Lavi said in what _sounded_ like a vaguely put-off tone. "_Because I'm tired of you cracking Hebrew and Kosher jokes._"

Allen blinked. "I believe you have Kanda and I mixed up. _Somehow_."

"_Oh. Oh, shit, you're right—he's the one that makes the jokes. Huh?_" There was a rustling sound over the line, and Lavi spoke with someone else near him. "_Oh, okay. Al, baby, are you still there?_"

"I never left."

"_Exo-skeleton, beautiful, blah blah—whatever, really._" The redhead laughed. "_Okay, my time is up on this portable phone—I swear to Jesus Christ that it is fuckin' A for Absolutely Awesome—and I need you to do me a big favor, because apparently Missus Lee palms off phones when I ask her. Could you, uh,_" he coughed lowly. "_Come and pick me up while my shoes are still on my feet? Because these are some _really_ nice shoes, and I would like to keep them._"

"Err—"

"_Damn—later days and better lays, Al!_" The line went dead.

Allen hung up the phone carefully, eyebrows furrowed. "Well," he started. "Lavi would like for us to retrieve him." He raked his fingers through his hair, clicking his tongue. "I'm not sure how, but okay."

Lenalee glanced at Kanda, who had taken a seat on the couch and was reading **Time** magazine as though it were actually interesting. "Hey, Kan_da_—"

"Hey, _hell no_," Kanda replied, turning the page. Allen wondered if he could even really _read_, to be honest.

"Oh, come _on_," the singer whined, walking over to him. "He's our drummer! And, like, isn't he your best friend?"

"Oh, _yeah_," Kanda said, furrowing his eyebrows. The sarcasm was so thick that Allen was almost proud of the moron. "I completely _forgot_ we were best friends. Especially since I've never tried to kill him or severely injure. Because best friends just don't _do_ that kind of thing—it's so _bunk_." He rolled his eyes. "I'd kill myself first before being his best friend."

Allen leaned against the wall, huffing. "He obviously needs some help here," he said. "And you're the only person we know that has a car—and isn't, well, my godforsaken uncle and Lenalee's excessively creepy brother."

"Did either of you ever consider that _maybe_ I don't feel like _driving_?" Kanda retorted, crossing his arms. "In fact, I thought you two were having a bitchfit—why are you being BFFs when Lenalee was going to kill you, like, ten minutes ago?"

"Because even though he's a selfish jerk," Lenalee answered calmly. "He's a selfish jerk that cares about his friends and the band." She smiled at Allen, who held a hand to his heart and thanked the Lord above that Lenalee was so understanding and unable to hold grudges for long periods of time. "And, why can't I drive?"

The oldest band member looked absolutely horrified, which made Lenalee pull an offended expression. "…Because you are _Asian_?" Kanda reasoned with so much hypocrisy that Allen was choking on it. "And if you get behind the wheel, we will all die so hard it'll be like a Marilyn Manson 'probable suicide.'"

Allen almost didn't have a comment. "Because I forgot you are Canadian and have perfect driving skills," he said.

"In a past life, I was probably Canadian," Kanda countered with a shrug, and he turned back to the magazine on his lap.

Lenalee wrapped her arms around his neck, sighing as she pressed her bosom against the side of his face. "May I _please_ drive?" she asked, and Kanda, who didn't look very effected by the breasts on the side of his head, scowled.

"Are you going to crash my car?" he demanded. "Wait, better question—can you even _drive_?"

"_Totally_." Lenalee replied with a grin. "Komui taught me four times, and I'm Pac-Man's biggest fan."

"Huh." He turned the page. "If I let you drive, will you get your boobs away from me?"

"Most definitely." Kanda clearly wasn't that hard of a nut to crack, because Lenalee only hugged him tighter.

"Then," the Japanese teenager groaned. "I call shotgun."

----

Kanda came to one conclusion—Lenalee probably couldn't even drive a fucking _shopping cart_ to save her life.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" he demanded, reaching over to attempt to grab the wheel. "You've got to turn on the goddamn blinkers, lady! I will go to _jail_!" Lenalee smacked his hand away with a delighted chuckle, and then she did _more_ insane turning.

The brat—whose name was actually _not_ Alonzo—was rolling in the back of the van. Literally, at that.

"Who _taught you_ how to bloody _turn_?" demanded Allen—it apparently wasn't Alphonse either—as he slammed into the wheel bump for the umpteenth time in five minutes. "Ow, ow, _ow_!"

Lenalee grinned harder, turning the wheel like she was driving a Kenworth Eighteen-Wheeler. "Blinky," she replied. "Hey, how long does it take to actually _get_ to Newport News?"

"Like, thirty minutes," Kanda said, regretting even feeling annoyance about the girl's breasts. Not that they were aggravating him, the boobs, but it just got annoying after thirty seconds because he was trying to read. He should have held strong, because then he would be in the passenger seat of his van as a psycho Chinese driver cut through school zones at fifty miles per hour. "Christ, are you going to do something stupid now?"

"…" Lenalee looked to the sides of the street. "It kinda matters on what you consider as _stupid_."

"Well, if he were to look in a mirror—"

"Shut _up_, punk," Kanda snapped, glaring at the kid through the dashboard window.

The seventeen-year-old clicked her tongue. "Well, Lavi needs our help," she proclaimed with a grin. "So, thirty minutes is mucho too much—we'll have to break it down."

"Our father, who art in heaven!" Allen prayed rapidly, touching his chest in the motions of the Hail Mary. "Hollow be thy name—"

"Oh shit," Kanda groaned, hitting the back of his head on the seat. He repeated the motion, hoping he could knock himself out before he died. "Oh _shit_."

"It's a four intersection lane!" Lenalee announced, and her hand was hot on the gear shift. "My light is yellow—oh, wait, now it's red—and I can't stop!" She let out a whoop, pumping her fist in the air.

"Keep your hands on the goddamn wheel!" Kanda exclaimed, terrified. That freaky brother was _not_ good for her mental health, and it was so obvious at this point.

She rolled down her window. "Good luck everybody!" she cried to the assumed world, and slammed her heeled shoe into the gas, causing the van to speed into the oncoming traffic.

Kanda's only feeling of pleasure came from the cries of pain from the boy in the back as he slammed into the _other_ wheel bump.

----

"Baby, I love you," Lavi said seriously, and he sighed. "But, we just aren't meant to be. I'm a dog person and you're, like, _not a dog_."

The cat on his lap mewled, nudging his palm for more petting motions.

Lavi shook his head. "We can't afford to form attachments," he said, picking up the feline carefully. "We're in totally different worlds here, baby. I'm in a band—you lick yourself. I mean, it's a radical ability, but you're, like, a _cat_."

"Meow," the cat replied, nuzzling his chin.

"Baby, that's exactly what I mean!" The redhead furrowed his eyebrows. "We don't even share the same _language!_"

It was a cute cat, though. Perky ears, reddish-brown with small and soft white feet, and probably a kitten. Lavi didn't really care, he just needed someone (or something) to talk to while he hoped Yuu grew a heart and decided to pick him up, because, like he told Lenalee, the next bus didn't come until eight, and that one wasn't even going to Hampton.

"Meow," the cat repeated, batting at his nose.

"Oh, you were sayin' something?" Lavi asked, looking down into the cat's golden eyes. Man, those were some creepy eyes—cats were too mysterious for his tastes. He already had enough of that in his life, he didn't really want anymore.

"_I stop the world and melt with you_," crooned Robbie Grey from a distance that was quickly getting shorter. Lavi did not know if that was his ride, but he stood up anyway, just to check it out. "_You see the difference, and it's getting better—all the time!_"

A gray '79 Chevy van screeched down the street, causing pedestrians and cars alike to get the hell out of the way.

Huh. Lavi cocked an eyebrow, playing with the kitten's whiskers. Yuu was actually a pretty good driver, all things considering. Therefore, never has he really lived up to the Asian stereotype of driving like he's constantly DUI-prone.

Did he even tell them his location—maybe they are just coming straight to the beach. That would be smart.

"Meow," the cat agreed. "Meow."

"You know it, babe." Lavi nodded with a grin.

The van slammed into a very violent stop in the middle of the parking lot for the beach, and all the black people surrounding Lavi did not even know what the hell was going on.

"_Fuck_," Yuu cursed immediately as soon as the passenger door was tossed open, and Lavi blinked. Why the hell did he just get out from _that_ side of the van? And, if he's not driving, then who is? "I swear to God—and I barely believe in the guy—that you will never touch my goddamn van's wheel again for as long as I am alive and kicking."

Simple Minds, one of Lavi's many favorite bands. The cat nipped lightly at his finger to get his attention.

"Oh, come _on_," Lenalee replied happily, hopping out the driver's side gleefully. "It's not like it's wasn't mega-fun. Right, selfish jerk?"

Allen stumbled out of the passenger side, holding his stomach and somehow managing to look paler than usual. "I, I'm going to _puke_," he muttered, and immediately brought his fist against his lips. "E-excuse me!" He dashed off to a trashcan and bent over it, grabbing the edge for dear life as he apparently puked.

"Where the fuck is Cyclops?" Yuu demanded angrily, stomping around the sandy sidewalk of the beach. "I just about _killed_ myself to get here, and the hoser is invisible!"

Lavi shook his head in amusement. Leave it to _Yuu_ to not find his target when said target is, like, five feet away. "Look to the side, Yuu," he called, grinning.

"Who the _fuck_ knows my name—" the Japanese teenager snarled as he turned around and caught sight of Lavi, who waved the cat's small paw in greeting.

"'Sup?" the one-eyed teenager greeted with a smile. "I'm Lavi." He held up the cat. "And this is, like, Hammer, my newest best friend, fer sure."

"That's _fantastic_," Yuu replied sarcastically, and he crossed his arms. "Are you gonna get over here so we can go or _not_?"

Lavi sighed, rolling his eye. "Hold _on_, man," he replied, and turned the cat to face him. "Baby," he started with a sniffle. "I know I said some things that might make you think I'm a trifling bastard—but I'm _not_. I'm willing to give you a chance, as long as you don't bother my Granddad and don't mess with my books or cassette collection. Especially the Beatles, because then I'll kill you."

"Meow."

"Glad we understand each other, Hammer." He walked towards the van with a skip in his step, the cat tucked within his arm. "So, uh, why the hell was Lenalee driving your precious van, my good man?"

"…" Yuu sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "Boobs."

"Yikes—that must've been a total blow-out to your gayitude!" Lavi exclaimed, wincing. "Man, did you even _realize_ they were boobs before you remembered how you think you're straight—okay, seriously, _put the fist down_."

"Try not to talk about my faggotry when the kid is _right there_," Yuu retorted, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of Allen.

Lavi leaned over, grinning. "Wow, wow, wow, and there he is!" he whistled, happy to observe the younger teenager in his not-so-natural habitat by the garbage can as Lenalee talked to him. "When he turns sixteen, I swear it'll be the best day of my life—I won't feel guilty at _all_, lemme tell ya—okay, can you please _put the fist down_?"

"Could you please _shut the fuck up_?" Yuu replied, lowering his arm. "I mean, _Christ_, I didn't even want to come here. You should've caught the bus."

"I was _bamboozled_, okay?" Lavi retorted, scoffing. "I was told—bogusly, at that—that the 102 was the bus going to Downtown, but it was _really_ the 112 that was headed that way!"

"Dude. Don't make excuses because you messed up."

"Then don't make excuses when you suspect you _might_ be gay, Yuu Ol' Boy."

"I will wring your _fucking_ neck if you keeping using my name like that—"

Lenalee flicked Yuu's forehead, rolling her eyes. "Calm down, take a deep breath, _breathe_," she said, and Allen smiled at Lavi.

"It was quite the adventure, trying to save you," he said with a sheepish shrug. "I almost died, and I think I might've swallowed a rib."

"It's awesome because you _came_ to save me," Lavi replied, smiling. He shuffled his feet a little, looking down. "Oh, uh, check out my new best friend, Hammer!" He held out Hammer, who mewled in displeasure at all the extra-attention.

Allen smiled, bringing his pale hand up to scratch the top of the cat's head. "'Ello, 'ammer," he said in an over exaggerated accent, but it _still_ managed to sound awesome. What was it called—_Cockney_? "Sorry I can't do more, I'm not a cat person."

"Neither am I," Lavi replied, petting Hammer again. "But, we have significant conversations."

Allen snickered. "That's, that's a bit potty, but cute."

Lavi shrugged, rolling his eye. "Thanks."

* * *

I WISH THAT I COULD MAKE YOU TURN AROUND—TURN AROUND AND SEE ME CRY: also known as the Phil Collins song that Kanda _would've_ played on gaytar, but was not able to be fit in. :D

Well, I worked extra hard on this chapter because I AM NOW SEVENTEEN WOO. TODAY IS THE KAZA'S BOITHDAY! /jigs like an Irishman

If you read volume four of DGM, then you might be able to understand Lenalee's feeling towards Allen in this chapter. It's quite the perilous process, girl/boy BFFhoods.

Kanda plays two songs, which are "Since You're Gone" by _The Cars_ and "Goodnight Saigon" by _Billy Joel_. The car plays one song, which is "I Melt With You" by _Modern English_, because God knows that most songs in the 80s were fcking _British_. :D I'M COOL WITH THAT, THOUGH, BECAUSE BILLY JOEL IS ALL-AMERICAN, BABY

Oh, and concerning the talk about black people and Asian drivers: FOR FUN. Of course we don't think every black person is a thieving criminal (I, personally, only believe most of them to be—and I have a right, because it is my opinion, I have had more bikes stolen from me than a 90s gangster movie, and I have gone to mostly African-American schools all my damn life, in addition to being African-American myself), nor do we believe that every person of Asian descent cannot drive (I mean, _Japan_ invents most of the cars on the fcking road, _seriously_). I have to put these kinds of warning up because a lot of the time, when I don't, a billion people take offense and start sending me messages conveying their displeasure. NOW YOU KNOW

Other than that: if anybody has tried to get in contact with the Kaza in the past three or four days, I was terribly sick and could not do anything due to intense drugging. D: I'm terribly sorry.

One more notice! Tuli-Susi, in amazing awesome awesomeness, has created a FFN forum for AWYWI! :D Check it out, say things~ :D Emi and I would love to hear what you have to say beyond the walls of the fanfic, be it bad or good. :D If you think it's okay now, it can only get better~

/still Irish jigging/ The Kaza's seventeen~! One more year~! Then I'll be out of my mom's house _thank god~_!


	30. Take On Me

_THIRTY_

August 6th, 1985.

Question for the Day: Was it truly wrong to want to completely _bend over_ a fifteen-year-old pianist?

"Yes," Kanda replied. "I do think you're fucking _sick_."

"Uh." Lavi paused, moving his lips away from the popsicle in his hand. "_Uh_. Unless you can, like, read my _mind_, I was only asking what kind of cat food should I get Hammer and if I should buy a new trap set. Because they are on sale at _Roy's_—"

"Nobody wants to read your goddamn mind," his best friend—no, he did not force the title upon the hard-ass, no matter what Kanda said—snapped, and he chomped his freakishly white teeth into his own blue popsicle, breaking off a small piece of the wood. "Besides, everyone and their grandma knows that whenever a flamer like yourself starts talking about things like _drums_ and _banging_ then you're probably talking about other men. And 'cat food' is codeword for 'extra-small condom.' Am I right, or am I right?"

Lavi was stumped. Where the hell did this _logic_ come from, and why was this guy eating the small splinters of wood in his mouth? "You could get an ulcer from that wooden shit," he said without much thought, but then he shook his head with a frown. "And where do you get off on _your_ bus, talkin' about how _I_'m gay or what kind of protection _I_ might be using? Have, have you actually looked in the mirror?"

"Every day of my life."

That whole 'painfully honest' thing that Kanda was so fond of? Yeah, it _really_ didn't make Lavi's life any easier, to be truthful.

"…What_ever_!" He sighed in exasperation. "It's so loopy, trying to argue with you! Jesus _Christ!_" The one-eyed teenager stuck out his tongue, thereby giving a big _screw you_ to maturity. "If you're gonna deny being gay and reading minds, then knock yourself out." He paused. "But, I _would_ be hyped to know your mind-reading secrets. How do you do it?"

Kanda shrugged, biting off another chunk of frozen syrup and wooden splinters. "It's mega-easy," he replied with ease. "You're a fucking fag, and you've got so much wood for that _kid_ that I'm gonna call the police soon. Isn't your birthday coming up, too?" He shook his head. "I don't even know what to do when I leave you in a room alone with the punk."

Lavi stared at him for what seemed to be hours, yet it ended up being mere seconds. "You, you actually _care_ that much about me?" he asked slowly. _Be still, my beating heart_, he willed silently. His dream for, like, _ever_ was to get the guitarist to admit he cared about him—then he could have _another_ thing to tease him with!

"What? No." Kanda snorted at the entire notion. "You're a loser, _loser_. No one can care about _that_." He made a rude gesticulation towards the entirety of Lavi's body.

"_Dude_," the redhead replied with a sigh. "Way to just shoot down all my dreams, _Yuu_."

Kanda scowled. "And if you keep using my first name, I'm going to shoot down more than just your _dreams_."

"What kinda half-assed lame threat was _tha—"_

"…it's totally gay, Al," a familiar female voice spoke, and the door swung open. Lenalee sauntered in, her white-haired British boy joy close behind. The drummer of the band didn't know if this made him liable for death, but she was totally _smoking_ today—especially with that Gap V-neck shirt and her ever-shortening skirt. As long as Komui didn't find out about his thoughts or Kanda didn't use his freaky mind-reading ability, Lavi should generally be safe. "I can't walk next to you when your pants are _that_ tight!" She huffed, stepping down the steps in her dangerously thin heels.

"Well!" Allen made a small 'harumph!' sound, fixing the red tie around his bare neck. Lavi could do nothing but approve—the kid had the fashion sense of a god, especially with how he pulled off an inky black t-shirt and low-riding stonewashed jeans. "It's not so bloody simple walking next to _you_ when your skirts are that short. We look like a pair of—"

"Homosexuals." Kanda interjected. He blinked at the glare he received from the younger teenager. "What? Keep talking, kid. I'm just stating the facts here."

"But." Lenalee pulled a disturbed face. "I'm, uh, I'm not a _lesbian_."

"Che'yeah, the brat _is_." The Japanese guitarist shook his head. "You know people get _ideas_ when they see one fag around normal people. Suddenly, _everyone_'s gay."

Allen smiled in delight. "Sounds like _some_body's speaking from, oh, _experience_," he said in a lilted tone, crossing his arms. "Now you know how _I_ feel when I'm unfortunate enough to stand next to you."

"I swear to fucking _God_—"

This seemed to be the _perfect_ chance for a distraction. "Wow, wow, wow!" Lavi whistled, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in approval at the two teenagers standing in the newly opened doorway. "Check _you_ two out!" He sat up straighter on his stool, stretching. "So, uh, what's the occasion? We goin' to a party or something trippy like that?"

Allen cocked an eyebrow, fixing what seemed to be a new pair of gloves—which, oddly enough, were fingerless. "What?" he asked in a bewildered tone. "Why in the world would we go to _any_ kind of party at this time of the year?"

Lavi paused, blinking. "What time of the year is it, again?"

Lenalee eyed him with a certain kind of _look_, one that obviously questioned his intelligence. "Um, we have to go back to school," she explained, hands on her hips. "It starts back on the, like, _twelfth_ of August."

"_Oh_," the one-eyed teenager hummed, scratching underneath his bandana. "That makes mucho sense, I guess."

Kanda coughed into his fist, attempting to hide his snickers but failing terribly. "Poor kids," he muttered. "Back to the Best Place Ever." He looked up, purely to glare at Allen. "And, I'm being _bogus_. It's not the Best Place Ever."

"Oh, believe me when I say that I _know_," the English boy replied with an overly exaggerated eye roll. "The American school system is ridiculous. Where I'm from—"

"Where _you_ are from," Kanda interrupted, sighing with the air of someone with years of exasperation. "Men sip tea and suck cock. Are you_ sure_ you want to keep associating with a place like _that_?"

"…" Allen's smile immediately dropped, and his fingers twitched at his sides. "…I, I'm going to absolutely _murder_ you—" He tried to launch himself at the older teenager, but Lenalee wrapped her forearm around his neck before he could get very far. "—you shirty, sodding _dick_! How _dare_ you insult—"

Lavi tapped a drumstick against his forehead, eyeing the thrashing boy with interest. "This kid is _seriously_ pissed off—how did you do it, Yuu?" he asked, eyebrows rising in amazement.

"Just mention how much Europe fucking _sucks_," Kanda replied. "It totally gets the punk hype."

"You want bloody _hype_?" Allen snapped, still struggling in his Chinese friend's grip. It was obvious that he was being mindful of the fact that Lenalee's a girl, which meant that he wasn't getting especially violent for that reason. "I'll show you _hype_—just, stand up and face me like a man, _Madame_!"

This was oddly _awesome. _"As messed up as this might sound," Lavi said with a smile. "I'm totally in love with his angry face." He sighed wistfully, resting his chin against his open palm. "It's most _def_ a step up from that creepy twenty-four seven smile of his."

Lenalee had taken to lightly bopping Allen on the side of his head. "Dude!" she exclaimed, trying not to laugh. "It's not that serious! I mean," She grinned at the boy, winking. "Kanda's Japanese—he's probably making fun of your country because everyone in his has a small dick."

"…_What_." Kanda deadpanned, with narrowed eyes. "Ex_cuse_ me?"

Allen visibly calmed down, his smile slipping back onto his pale face. "You know," he said, fixing his gloves once more. "You are most probably _right_."

"How the fuck do you get off—"

"Anyway!" the British boy sniffed, turning away from the older teenager. Kanda looked like _he_ wanted to stand up and tackle the boy, but decided against it for some reason. "I feel as though this summer was rather short, and especially hot." He tugged at his shirt collar for exaggeration.

"Sheesh, I feel bad for you high schoolers, man," Lavi said with a shrug, plopping back down into his seat. "Like, you're having the time of your fucking life—then, bam! Summer's over! Let's get a good learning with My Little Hitler and his Gestapo Educators!"

Allen stared at him, eyebrows raised in question. "But, Cross said that Levillie is actually _not_ a neo-Nazi…_oh._" He shook his head, smiling in his amused way. "I keep forgetting that you're actually rather, uh, wonky. You're _destined_ to say odd things, really."

"Wonky? Whoa, like the candy?" Lavi grinned, waggling his eyebrows. "Are you sayin' I'm delicious and that I melt in your mouth? Because—"

"'—_you can get down with that_,'" Allen recited without missing a beat, rolling his eyes for that sarcastic effect he was so fond of. "I _know_. Fortunately, you will not be melting in my mouth."

"More like _un_fortunate," the eighteen-year-old muttered, huffing. He was _not_ getting _that_ predictable—was he? Well, either way, this needed some major rectification. "So, what's the dealio? You guys went school shopping together or something gay like that?"

"Kinda," Lenalee replied with a small shrug. "It's more like we went to find a book because I forgot to do my required reading for my AP Brit Lit class but we ended up buying a bunch of boss shirts and then the _Bitchin' Boytoy Wonder_ here managed to get a gaggle of ditzy girls to buy him lunch because he totally went _bogus_ on me!"

"And did I not get you lunch as well?" Allen asked, brushing loose strands of hair out the way of his eyes. "I mean, I was hungry, you were hungry, and I _only_ had five dollars. Can you truly blame me?"

"Well, no. But! I _am_ totally going to clone you and use you as a weapon one day," Lenalee answered with a jovial smile. "And then, I swear, I can rule the world and make it so that seventeen-year-olds can buy cigarettes!"

"Eww," Lavi gagged. "Why do all you kids want to _smoke_ so badly? It's not that radical!" He grimaced, sticking out his tongue. "It leaves this terrible taste on your tongue, and then—I swear to Jesus—you won't stop coughing for, like, _hours_. I mean, if you want to die, then sure. Smoke to your heart's content, kill yourself. I could probably care less—well, if it were someone that _wasn't_ in the _Black Order_, but otherwise. Smoking sucks."

Allen frowned. "Seriously, _Jesus_?" he asked blandly, rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time. Was that his favorite way of expressing his disdain? Or was he just secretly a jackass?

"Dude," Lavi replied. "Your eyes are gonna fall outta your head if you keep doing that. But, yeah, Jesus." He sniffed in disdain. "Why can't I say his name too? Because I'm made of so much fucking awesome?"

"No, because you're kind of—"

"Don't _say_ it," the redhead said overdramatically, holding a hand to his chest and leaning back on his stool. "I feel that retail rage when people say it aloud and shit."

Allen just shook his head in reply, hands on his straight hips. "Surely," he replied. He perked up, though, snapping his fingers as he remembered something. "Oh! And, Lenalee told me that your birthday is coming up! It's, err, the eleventh?"

Close, but no cigar. "Yeah, _no_," Lavi grinned, scratching his head. "It's actually on the _tenth_." He sat up straighter, eye widening. "Why? What's up?" His eyebrows raised in interest. "You wanna do something for my birthday? Give me a present?"

"Huh?" replied the English boy with a cocked eyebrow.

"He doesn't get much on his birthdays," Lenalee said with a sheepish expression. "Something about how his Grandpa's a hardass that doesn't believe in spending money on fruity things like _birthdays_."

"The most shit I've ever gotten was on my _Bar Mitzvah_," Lavi muttered, crossing his arms in spite. "And I was, like, only _thirteen_ and didn't know about the awesome that is a Walkman back then."

The white-haired teenager rubbed his chin, humming in thought. "That's, that's rather unfortunate," he admitted. "When I still lived with my father, I _did_ get quite a few presents." He smiled a small twitch of his pale lips, hand stilling. "My birthday was on the same day as Christmas, so it was really just coincidence. But, they were still the best days of my life."

"Oh?" Lenalee blinked in surprise. "Why'd you stop living with your dad, then?"

"Hmm?" Allen smiled harder with a bit of a sigh. "Oh, unfortunately, he _died_."

Well, that was a fucking depressing statement if Lavi ever heard one—and he's been friends with Kanda for _years_ at this point. "Total bummer," he replied, looking down.

"Yes, but off of that subject." The fifteen-year-old grinned. "We could always take you out for your birthday—you're already rather active in everyone _else_'s affairs when it comes to birthdays, so maybe we could do something for you?"

"I hope to Christ that you are not including _me_ in this fucking equation," Kanda muttered, and Allen secretly flipped the middle finger at the older teenager. "Fuck you _too_, brat."

"If you do that," Lavi replied with a quirky smile. "I will somehow love you more than usual."

"Because I would _love_ that," Allen replied, unable to resist the urge to be sarcastic. "Okay, I'm sorry about that. But! We'll be sure to make your nineteenth birthday a memorable one!"

"Yeah?" Lavi laughed, running his fingers through his thick hair. "Well, isn't that something."

It was _already_ a memorable one—and he was still eighteen.

----

August 10th, 1985.

"I'm _really_, truly sorry about this," Allen apologized profusely, rubbing his arm with a bashful expression. "Lenalee had to go to the school with Komui—she says sorry, too—and Kanda's just a complete jackarse. I mean, surely you don't want to hang out with just _me_—"

Lavi pressed the palm of his hand against the top of the boy's head, ruffling his white hair. "Cool out, my good man," he replied with an easy smile. "I'm _just fine_ hanging out with you." In fact, he could think of nothing better, because it had the capabilities to be absolutely excellent. And, he had the capabilities to score—definite yes on _his_ form.

"Are you sure?" replied Allen with a frown, batting the hand away from him. "Because, I _can_ convince Kanda to come out here too—"

He didn't know if the kid was suicidal or fucking _amazing_. "You're so fucking _amazing_," the redhead admitted, laughing kind of nervously. "But, it's totally crucial. I mean, it'd be funny as all get out if you could get Yuu Ol' Boy out here, but…I don't feeling like getting wrapped up on my birthday."

"And a happy birthday to you, on that note," the fifteen-year-old replied, smiling. "Well then, I won't waste my twenty-five cents on a payphone to get him. I'll waste it on the lunch funds, instead." His smile widened, and Lavi felt something jump in his chest. "Anything else you would like to do today?"

_I am not a pervert_, Lavi thought as he swallowed back the thoughts that coursed through his mind. _And I will not go to jail yet. Illegal is illegal, and those goddamn pants are most definitely breaking the law. Maybe I could get them off of him before the police come?_ "Let's, uh," he mumbled, coughing lowly in his throat. "Let's just play it by ear. You know, just let it happen."

"Okay?" Allen shrugged, hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets. "Well, we can start with lunch, after all." He smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling with the expression. "Choose any place—I'll pay your way."

Is this revenge for those terrible two weeks that wrecked absolute _havoc_ on his wallet? "Lunch, you're sayin'?" Lavi's stomach hummed in thought, and he scratched his head with a bashful smile. "I could really go for some IHOP, fer sure."

Allen was quick to raise an eyebrow. "IHOP?" he repeated, disdain coloring his thickly accented voice. "…Oh, bugger all. I guess that's acceptable, If we _must_."

"What's wrong with IHOP?" the one-eyed man asked, frowning. "Last time I checked—"

"Well, _I_ checked yesterday," Allen replied, and Lavi had the suspicions that whatever the kid was about to say was going to be a _damn lie_. "And, according to my research, only communists and Russians eat at the _International House of Pancakes_." The younger teenager looked at his gloved fingers with a smirk, and Lavi's heart thumped in his chest. "I feel as those you may want to reconsider—unless you are secretly socialist?"

_I can't believe this talk-talk of totalitarianism is turning me on_, Lavi thought in slight horror, shaking his head. "Alright, okay. It's all good. How about the Waffle House?" he tried.

"Meeting ground for the Ku Klux Klan," the British boy explained with an expression that was either serious or sarcastic. Lavi, personally, could not tell. "Not too safe for you and your…religion."

"Dude, lay off the Jew-cracks," Lavi muttered. He whistled lowly for a moment, thinking. "Um. Taco Bell?"

"You _really_ don't want to live to be twenty, do you?"

"Wendy's?"

"I always suspected you were a fascist."

"Uh, shit, that chicken place down the street from the high school?"

"I heard that you can hear the anguished cries of the woman who died in the deep fryer."

Lavi huffed. "Brit, you're full of shit," he concluded.

Allen's smile widened. "Am I?" he challenged. "Or, am I just trying to make sure you don't bodge up your existence by requiring an exorcism after eating a piece of human flesh ironically shaped as a delicious piece of fried chicken?"

"…" The green-eyed teenager didn't know whether to laugh or write a book—that sounded like the _Nancy Drew_ plot of the century. "You're still full of shit, Brit."

"Shit, life-saver, whatever you must call it," Allen said with a wistful sigh. "I'm just trying to keep you alive, Lav'."

"Waffle house won't feed me?" Lavi blinked. "And, did you seriously just call me '_love_,' like those gay British guys—wait, never mind."

"Not for being Jewish on a Saturday. This _is_ the KKK we are talking about." the British boy replied, a tick in his eyebrow. "And I did not call you _'love,'_ I called you _Lav'_, which is your name sans the 'I.' It's a nickname. A pseudonym. Whatever you call it, that's what I just called you."

"You little ass," Lavi grumbled, wrapping his arm around the younger boy's neck and pulling him into a headlock. "Since _you_ know so much—where should we go for my birthday, huh?"

----

"How the fuck did we end up at Denny's?" Lavi wondered aloud with a wide eye. "I mean, it's like IHOP. Just. _Not IHOP_."

"That's what he said," Allen muttered lowly. "Anyway! This was the only place where we wouldn't be in vital danger. And the sausage here is right delicious—you should really have a bite at it!"

Manipulative _bastard_. "I _bet_ the sausage is delicious to you," Lavi grumbled, shaking his head with a smile that belied his cheer. "I can't believe you haven't been used as a fucking _weapon_ yet. Like, a radical one, one that's capable of destruction. Like, _mass_ destruction and shit."

"What am I, a socialist?" the British boy sniffed, resting his arms on top the table. "You don't understand. My legal guardian is, well, _Cross_. I can't survive if I can't convince a drunk that I've been paying rent and bills for the bloody house with just my father's trust fund."

"That's fucking _A_," Lavi admitted. He pressed his teeth into the skin of his bottom lip, hesitating. "But, uh, how _are_ you paying for all that shit if you aren't using your old man's trust fund?"

"Oh, believe me, you would _love_ to know."

Lavi has always hated the feeling of curiosity with a _passion_, ever since he learned it killed his cat when he was six. Since living with his Granddad, he's usually able to squelch the itching urge to _know_ something by reading up on it in a book. Yet, he _knew_ that he would probably never find out how this kid went about life.

It was probably illegal. Or not, Allen seemed way too sweet and smiley to break any _major_ laws.

That would be admitted _awesome_ if it was, though.

"You just show up with a new guy every time, huh?" And Lavi was snapped out of his train of thought, looking up with a bit of a jolt. A blond man stood at the end of their booth, a facial mask stretching with his expression of smiling. "What's up, my old classmate?"

"Huh?" Lavi enunciated like an intelligent individual. He looked up at the waiter, cocking an eyebrow. "Um. _Um_." Holy shit this guy looked familiar—but, from _where_?

"It's Toma," Allen helpfully supplied. "You got bladdered at his graduation party and Kanda and I had to throw you into the trunk. I was molested the morning after."

Oh. _Oh_. "Toma!" Lavi exclaimed, snapping his fingers in surprise. "Oh, shit, sorry! I, like, couldn't even recognize you without the hoodie or the jacket with the hood or even that stellar hooded sweatshirt with—"

"I get it!" Toma interrupted with a chuckle. "I wear a lot of hoods. You might've had a better chance of recognizing me if my boss let hoods happen. But, they aren't, so I'm just going to let it happen." He shrugged, tucking his thumbs in his black pant pockets. "So, really, Walker—what's up with you and bringing all these guys to Denny's?" he teased. "I mean, at least it's the _right_ one this time."

"What's he goin' on about?" the one-eyed teenager asked his younger friend, who was currently smacking his forehead and dragging the hand down in a show of frustration. "Wait, is he saying what I _think_ he's saying? Baby, is there something I need to know about you?"

"I'm currently in a sexually active relationship with Tyki Mikk," Allen deadpanned with a pronounced eye roll. "Why?"

"Hey, just making sure you aren't cheating on me." Lavi laughed. "That'd be _harsh_. But, for serious, what's this dude talking about?"

Allen sighed, fingering his menu. "Maybe I brought Kanda here once," he said. "And, maybe we—"

"Made out?" Oh, come _on_, Yuu.

"—stayed until five in the morning." The fifteen-year-old threw him a disturbed expression. "Just, _eww._ Grody." He smacked his hand over his mouth, eyes wide in horror. "I mean, err, _gross_."

"Too late," Lavi said with a grin. "Would you check _that_ out?" He looked up at Toma, jabbing a thumb in Allen's direction. "I'm getting the feeling that Brit Ol' Boy doesn't hate America _or_ the slang that comes with it."

"Rubbish," Allen retorted. "That's what I think of this country and the slang. _Especially_ the slang."

"Why are you full of so much _shit_ today?"

Toma scratched the top of his blond head, eyes closed in amusement. "Are you planning to be a comedian?" he asked Lavi. "Because I can most _definitely_ see the next Richard Pryor in you."

"…Are you saying that I'm going to freebase coke and then light myself on fire?" Lavi asked with a wide eye. "Because that would be a fucking _trip_."

"I, I'd pay to see that," Allen admitted with a badly repressed smile. "Dear _God_ I would buy the VHS to something like that." He covered his mouth to smother his laughter, leaning back in his seat as it racked his body.

"Dude." Yes, it was a hilarious image, but still. This was still cocaine and self-immolation! "_No_." Lavi huffed, looking down at his menu. "Hey, are you able to take our orders yet?"

"That's actually my job," Toma said. "I came to ask if you guys, like, wanted any drinks—but, I think you both are smashed enough for the day."

"I'm not drunk," Allen said immediately, sobering up from his moment of amusement. "It's just being with Lavi for more than an hour. You begin to _feel_ like an alcoholic, you see."

"But, I _am_ drunk," Lavi replied. "On _love_."

"Why are you so bloody _predictable_?"

"I'm gonna get you guys some water now," the waiter said, cocking an eyebrow. "It'll help you. You know. Actually _un-drunk_ yourselves."

"Actually, that's not true—" Allen began, but Lavi shook his head. "Um. Yes."

"Right." Toma walked away, his shoulders shaking with the snickers he was obviously holding back. "_Not drunk_."

It was quiet for a while, a first since their day together. Lavi looked forward at the British boy in front of him, kind of cursing his lack of an eye because it probably would've been more fulfilling if him having two eyes were the case. He idly wondered if the kid had any tattoos or piercings. Lavi, personally, had four piercings and a tattoo on his ass—but, that was probably too much information.

Then, the silence was broken. "Are you gay?" Allen asked out of the fucking _wazoo_.

Lavi gaped. "What the—"

"I mean," the boy coughed into his fist, skin flushed. "I know it's random, but your earrings are so…_homosexual_." He motioned towards his own ears, wincing. "They're bloody _huge_, and _bulky_, and remind me of one of Cross's ex-girlfriends who wore earrings the size of her wrist. They could've been bangles. And, well, you look kind of _camp_ wearing them."

Oh, well. "Um." The redhead touched his earrings, frowning. He really liked his hoops—they were the _in_ thing, especially in 1985. All the hot musicians on television were wearing them, and they were _sexy_. "I think they're pretty fuckin' _sexy_," he muttered.

"Err—"

"But you wouldn't know because you don't _have_ any earrings," Lavi continued, smirking. "You see, baby, you're knockin', but I can't open the door until you _try_."

Allen narrowed his gray eyes, the scar along the left wrinkling with the motion. "I do hope you're not implying what I _think_ you are," he said.

"Do it for me," Lavi insisted, a grin wide on his lips. "I mean, I'll pay for it, and I know this guy—"

"No!" Allen yelped, holding up his hands in an effort to put more distance between him and the older man. "No bloody _way_! I won't do it—I'm very fragile—"

"Oh, as _if_." The redhead leaned forward with a leer. "You can handle a little pain, huh? Ain't that what life's all about? Come _on_, it's just your ears! What are you doing with them that's so bangin'?"

"Let's try being able to listen to the insanity coming from your mouth. Maybe we'll get somewhere."

"Hey, come _on_. I mean, just _one_ ear then! I offered to pay for it—I'm fucking _Jewish_, so you know that means I _really_ love you."

"I don't believe in that ruddy stereotype!" Allen replied haughtily, crossing his arms. "I'm _not_ doing it! For no reason whatsoever—end of the _discussion_."

Well, he'll have to use the big one. "Al_len_," Lavi whined, reaching across the table to grab the boy's hand. "Do it for me."

"No—"

"It's my _birthday_, you know. I never really got anything on my birthday before—but I would really love this!"

"…" Allen glared at him, his lips in a small pout. "…Oh bloody _hell_. Fine!" He turned his head away with a sniff, muttering "_Manipulative bastard_," underneath his breath.

Two glasses of water were set in front of the duo, and Lavi grinned.

"Thanks Toma," he said, flipping off a military salute. "I'll leave you an excellent tip!"

"Awesome," Toma replied, and he pulled out his notepad from his apron. "Ready for your orders yet?"

"Oh, sure!" The redhead made a show of running his finger down the menu, and smirked. "Do you have any aspirin? It's for my friend over here." He pointed at Allen, who sipped at his water with _vengeance_. "He's gonna need it later."

Toma nodded, rolling his eyes as he scribbled on the paper in his hand. "Oh," he replied. "I heard Vaseline can prevent that pain. Or lotion." His eyes crinkled as he grinned. "Don't forget a condom."

Allen choked on his straw.

----

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," Allen said as fear washed over his skin, and he gripped his chair tight enough to break it. "I hate you, I hate you, you'll die soon, I hate you."

Lavi just pulled a lollipop out of his mouth, smiling. "Dude, calm down," he reassured. "It won't hurt _that_ much. Tokusa used to work in a hospital. Then, he got fired."

"Very reassuring, especially considering how we're in a hotel room alone with this chap," Allen said blandly. "By the way, I'm being sarcastic. That wasn't reassuring at all, and if my ears fall out or I get, dare I say it, _raped_—you _will_ be paying for my medical expenses."

"That's choice," the one-eyed man replied.

Tokusa snorted from the side of the chair, as a light-haired man with the facial design of a snake. He was kind of freaky to look at, but he was good with piercings, despite his lack of the body modification. He also had kickass hair, kind of like a glam rock star.

"Allen Walker," he began with a smile, and Allen looked like he just had a heart attack. "Don't worry. You're in good hands."

"IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou!" the white-haired boy stammered faster, gulping as the pale man clicked a small plastic gun in his hand. "Ohdear_Lord_Ihateyou!"

"So," the man said as he picked up a marker and leaned in closer to the boy. "I heard you're in a band. You play synth or somethin'?" He had this accent to his voice, like he was from some state up north. He also spoke like he was eternally bored and was constantly attempting to be polite despite his evil appearance.

Allen tried not to look over at the man as the tip of the marker was run over his earlobe. "Yes, I mean, yes," he replied cautiously. "I play synth. How, uh, how did you know?"

"I'm in a band myself," Tokusa replied with an eerie grin. His thin lips stretched across his face, and his teeth had a canine quality. "From up in New York—we're on tour, though. But, yeah, check out my hands—the fingers are jacked _up_. That's the sign of a true synth player, can you relate?"

The British boy glanced at his own gloved fingers, drumming them against the arm of the chair. "Err, yes."

"See? We've got _so much_ in common," Tokusa snickered. "So, try to _relax_. I'm not tryin' to molest you or anything."

"It's very hard for me not to believe that—_ouch_!" Allen cried, arching a bit in his chair. His fingertips managed to break the leather fabric of the chair, and he hissed. "That bloody _hurt_!"

"That's the plan," the man replied, fitting in an earring in his now mutilated left ear. The earring was _heavy_ as hell, and the boy had an itching urge to roll his eyes at Lavi's antics. "Congrats—you're now a _real_ hardass."

"Sexy," Allen muttered.

"I agree," Lavi said with a grin.

"Wash around the earring," Tokusa instructed, eyes heavy-lidded as he dabbed alcohol around the newly opened hole of flesh. "Rotate the rod whenever you get the chance. And don't take out the earring for five weeks or something like that," He clicked the gun again, giving Allen a small smile. "Sorry about that, by the way."

Allen looked up at him, and found the new weight alien to his earlobe. "About what, exactly?" he asked slowly. Was he dying? Did he have an infection? Oh, God, he had an infection. This is what _happens_ when he obliges Lavi for _one_ moment—

"Usually, you start off with a stud," Tokusa explained, running his long fingers through his ponytail. "But, your friend asked me to give you the earring you have now. You'll probably get laughed at when you get to school, Allen Walker."

"For looking gay?" he asked with a tired air.

"For looking gay, yeah."

Lavi smiled around the candy in his mouth. "Hey, think of it this way—it won't be any different from when you go to school wearing your sister's jeans."

"I don't have a sister!"

"_Exactly_."

----

Cross stared at him, cigarette smoke wafting around his face.

"Is," he started, narrowing his eyes. "Is that a fucking _earring_?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Are you _trying_ to get your head dunked in a toilet this year, brat?"

Allen, who was trying to not bang his head on the wall, gritted his teeth as he thumped his forehead against the cream-colored wallpaper.

"I might as well," he replied.

* * *

Yes. It's _that_ gay earring. The infamous "radio".  
(Tokusa is a real character. Chapter 185 will prove I'm not a liar!)(I just found him so fucking _interesting_, not to mention the rest of that T-E crew! :D)

I actually cannot stand Take On Me now. D: Dance Dance Revolution SuperNova 2 made me want to _choke_ the lead singer and tell him where he can stick it. I COMPLETED THAT GODDAMN MISSION—YOU KNOW I DID. (It also used to make me cry—but THAT'S CONFIDENTIAL INFO!)

This chapter is dedicated to DA artist the-fish92, because the fanart she drew for this fic is awesome.

(Why is all the fanart for this fic so beautiful—I mean, _seriously_, every time I look at those pictures I kind of want to cry. Seriously. _Cry_.)

Okay, here's an announcement that few people might care about. :D AWYWI will soon be experiencing…its first birthday! Yes, I know, you might be asking 'Why do _I_ care?' and I'm saying because _I_ care. _Emiggax_ cares. This is the fanfic that really makes us feel like we're doing something with our lives. So, yeah, I _am_ going to put in an active effort to update on the exact date of June 22nd. We really, really _love_ you guys. I don't think there would even be a chapter _two_ without your support, let alone 30+.

Thank you all! :D

(btw why is everyone under the impression that Kanda is officially gay in this fic? D: I don't remember saying that. If you're talking about a lack of denial when Lavi made some comment or another on homosexuality and him, then that's just a normal human thing. He won't deny one thing when he's thinking about something else.)(Kanda…would _fail_ at being outright gay in the 80s. If David Bowie couldn't do it, I severely doubt _Kanda_ could.)


	31. Little Girls

_THIRTY-ONE_

August 12th, 1985.

Howard Link _swore_ on the Lord he prayed to that letting Allen Walker hang out with those…_three…_was quite possibly the worst thing he's done in his life yet. And he's a vice-principal—he's done plenty of questionable things.

"Are you sure you can handle _three_ Advanced Placement classes?" he asked the boy next to him, trying to look everywhere but at his ear. It _couldn't_ have been what he was thinking it was—Allen was better than that. "You _are_ smart—but, it'll be quite the challenge."

"I'll be fine," Allen replied with a smile, waving his hand in dismissal. "I heard that AP classes are the best ones to take—especially in grade eleven."

Link nodded, looking forward down the hallway. "I'm just attempting to make your education in America as easy as possible," he said. "Please don't blame me for my worry."

The British boy shook his head shyly, the object of Link's intense curiosity swinging with the motion. "Of course not."

The question kept itching at the blond man's mind, and his eyebrow ticked as he kept _thinking_ about it. "Allen," Link started slowly, looking down at the teenager. "I'm sorry, but is that an _earring_?"

"…" Allen stared at the ground as he walked, sighing heavily. "Yes. It is an earring, Mr. Link."

"Indeed," the blond man coughed lowly into a fist, tearing his ears away from the almost _obnoxious_ly large isosceles trapezoid of a golden earring. It looked like it was implying something rather odd, like the boy, as quoted by Marian Cross from their earlier phone conversation, 'Was a goddamn _homosexual_'. But, those were _Cross_'s words. "…Why is it so large and oddly shaped?"

"If I said 'Lavi,'" Allen replied. "Would you immediately understand?"

Link immediately understood. "I did warn you," he said with a small sniff. "Especially towards Lavi. Thank _God_ I can live the rest of my life without further contact with him."

"What about his high school reunion?"

"I don't expect to exist in his general vicinity when that day comes." The vice-principal stopped in his steps, lifting up his wrist to check his watch. "You have three minutes to get to class—and if you want to change your schedule…"

"Yes, I know." Allen smiled sheepishly. "All I need is to talk to you or a counselor. Believe me, you've told me." He ran his gloved fingers through his white locks of hair, clicking his tongue as he eyed a bypassing student. "By the way, do you think you could do me _one_ small, ruddy favor?"

Link cocked an eyebrow. Did he want him to bake a cake? Because he could do that. "Go on…?"

"Could," the teenager sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Could you possibly _not_ call me out, if possible?" He looked at Link with those light gray eyes, staring into his _soul_. "It might make me a target for bullying."

_I doubt you'll need my help for that_, Link thought seriously as he stared at the boy. _Especially with those…_ "Earrings—err, of course," he said suddenly, fixing his tie as he straightened his posture. "I can understand that completely. But, if you _are_ bullied in any way, just tell me." He narrowed his eyes. "I can take care of it."

"Smashing!" Allen replied, and began walking forward faster. "I'll, err, I'll see you. Some, uh, _other_ time that is not to be recent!" He turned the corner at that, waving a hand at the man.

Link sighed, pivoting on his heel and walking back in the direction to his office.

He needed to have a talk with Cross about making his job harder than it _should_ be.

----

"Is that an earring?" Lenalee asked with a bit of a bemused expression.

Allen had the feeling that he would probably go postal today. "Yes." He smiled at the girl, eager to change the bloody subject before _more_ questions where asked about his new body modification. "I find it truly _blinding_ that we have one class together." His smile widened. "And it's _Physics_."

"I find it really whacked that you have a bigger earring than half my jewelry collection." She shook her arm, jangling her bracelets and bangles for emphasis. "I mean, _dude_. You could've _told_ me."

"This is all Lavi's fault," Allen retorted, crossing his legs underneath his desk. "It was _for his birthday_. I should've never gone through with it! I'm such a bloody _idiot_!"

Lenalee leaned over and patted her younger friend on the back. "If it makes you feel better," she began with a grin. "_I_ think it's sexy. It makes you look like one of those glam rock synth-players—which is _awesome_ when I think about the Battle."

"I love the way that didn't make me feel better."

The classroom door opened slowly, and most of the chatter trickled down into a sense of cautious silence. A man walked in, his long hair light-colored and the middle braided.

He turned after a moment, glancing at the class with a kind smile. "Thank you for being reasonable teenagers," he said, his eyes closed. "Usually the first day has much more chatter and paper ball throwing. There are only, err," he squinted his eyes. "_Four_ pieces of trash on the ground. Wonderful!"

"This guy is cute," Lenalee whispered to Allen, who was not so inclined to agree. "But, he's kind of freaking me out."

"You are _not_ the only one." The way the man talked reminded Allen of pedophiles in London primary schools. Believe him when he says that it's not very pretty.

The man smiled harder. "My name is Mr. Federico," he announced. "I'll be your Physics teacher for the semester." He turned on his heel to the board, patting around for a piece of chalk. "It's rather ironic though—I _am_ Catholic." He chuckled. "I also don't believe in Darwinism and most aspects of scientific theory. Such as the Big Bang."

Allen felt his fingers drumming against the desktop, distracting him from focusing on the teacher. Was he European? His name sounded rather like a Romantic language. Perhaps Portuguese?

Allen shuddered.

"I believe that man was created by the hands of God, but that's a secret," Mr. Federico continued, scribbling verifiable gibberish on the board. "Don't tell the school board I said that. But! I love physical science—especially the formula for gravity and inertia."

Lenalee looked mortified. "I think," she whispered in the quietest voice she possessed. "That this class is going to be _mad_ difficult."

"How _wonderful_." Allen deadpanned. Mr. Federico cocked an eyebrow at him, and he straightened in his seat, eyes wide. "I, err, um. I apologize?"

"Accepted," Mr. Federico replied with a quirky twitch of his lips. He dusted his hands of the chalk remnants, chuckling. "Well, I have a certain habit I cannot break out of, regardless of where I work. I like introductions," He nodded in agreement with himself. "Especially in a class full of upperclassmen like yourselves. Can we try that?"

The class murmured its agreement, the various teenagers coughing lowly in their throats and fiddling around with the things on or in their desks. Mr. Federico smiled in delight.

"He's still scary," Lenalee muttered.

"But, in a Catholic priest kind of way," Allen whispered.

"Thank you, class," the man said suddenly. "We can start the introductions with you."

Was Allen delusional, or was this teacher pointing directly at him. "Me, sir?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, you. With the earring. And the white hair." Mr. Federico retracted his hand, gazing at the teenager with clear eyes. "You seem very interesting. So, just tell us your name, your grade, where you are from, and your hobby, if possible."

It was like his first day in his tenth grade year all over again. Just, he didn't have an obnoxiously homosexual earring at that time.

Allen stood up, feeling the eyes of most of the class on his back. And his arse, which was kind of uncomfortable, actually. "My name is," he started slowly, running his tongue over his shockingly dry lips. "My name is Allen Walker. I am in grade eleve—err, my junior year. I'm from London, and I play the synthesizer as a hobby."

"Thank you, Allen," Mr. Federico said in this priestly manner that Allen was beginning to pick up on.

"You're quite welcome, Father," he muttered lowly, sitting back down in his seat with flushed cheeks.

Lenalee blinked at him. "I thought you said your dad was, uh—"

"I meant in the _Catholic priest_ kind of way," Allen replied with a horrified expression. "I would _kill myself_ if my father had worked at my school. That's slightly more embarrassing than the fact Mr. Link is my half-stalker."

"Dude, are you _serious_—"

"Yes," Mr. Federico said with a smile, leaning in close to the Chinese girl. "I would like for you to introduce yourself."

The long-haired girl looked up at him, and the British boy didn't know if she was entranced by his beauty or freaked out because he somehow _teleported_ in front of them, and they were in the third row!

"Oh, fer sure!" She stood up, and coughed into his fist. "I'm Lenalee Lee, third generation Chinese. I'm in the twelfth grade, I'm from San Francisco, and I sing mezzo-soprano for a hobby." She sat back down, beaming at the man.

"Thank you," Mr. Federico replied, continuing down the row.

----

"San Fran_cisco_?" Allen asked afterschool, leaning against the bike rack with an incredulous expression. "I hadn't the slightest idea you were from, well, _not Hampton_."

"Me? From _Virginia_?" Lenalee gagged, sticking her tongue out. "That would be _bogus_. Do I even sound like I'm from any place _near_ the South?"

"No," he admitted, and found himself playing with the earring on his ear as he thought. "I guess I was taking a not-so-educated guess." He looked down at his Converse shoes, embarrassed. "I apologize."

"Oh!" the older teenager sighed, wrapping her arms around Allen's neck and hugging him tightly. "Don't bug about it! It's just human nature, get it?" She smiled against his cheek, amazed at how much taller he was from the first time they met seven months ago. They were about the same height now—well, Allen got her by, like, _two_ or something centimeters, but whatever. "I probably should've told you all this crap when we first met, yeah."

"It's really okay," Allen replied, patting her on the back in a slightly awkward manner. "I mean, the thing was just something that caught me off-guard."

"Speaking of being caught off-guard—you think would Mr. Federico be interested if I, like, slipped him my phone number while calculating the rate a car falling down a cliff at an acceleration of fifty?"

"…" Allen bit his bottom lip in worry. "Only if you were a little boy, sorry."

"Harsh!" Lenalee laughed, pinching his cheek. "No, seriously, do you think he'd—"

"I'm serious too—_don't do it_." He didn't want to think of what Komui would do to the school if some exceedingly odd Physics teacher of the Catholic persuasion started calling his house. There might be an explosion. "Please, spare us all the fireworks."

"Oh, come _on_—"

The aggravating sound of a horn honking cut off their conversation caught the attention of the two, and Lenalee turned around with an annoyed expression.

"What kind of dick—oh, _crucial_!" She clapped her hands together in delight, grinning. "Come on, Al, we've got to go now!"

Allen looked in the same direction she did, and caught the dark blue eyes of his arch-nemesis/half-friend. "You said you'd be waiting," he started as he pushed himself off the bike rack. "It looks like the other way around from _this_ angle."

Kanda rolled his eyes, putting the van into park. "Why don't you shut the fuck up or catch the bus?" he replied as reasonably as he could. "Because last time I checked my watch, I didn't have the time for your shit."

"At least you have a watch," the British boy muttered, holding the passenger door open for Lenalee. He rolled his eyes when she patted his head as a way of thanking him for being a gentleman.

"Yeah, yeah—wait, stop right there." Kanda leaned over Lenalee, squinting at Allen's face. "Is that a fucking _earring_?"

"Yes, it is a godforsaken earring!" Allen snapped, raking his gloved fingers through his hair. "It is _blatantly_ an earring—you look daft just _asking_ me a stupid question like the one that just came out of your mouth!" He stalked towards the back of the van, opening the door with a barely restrained physical anger.

Kanda looked at him through the rearview mirror. "…" he coughed a laugh, looking forward. "That shit is gay as hell—did you even look in the mirror to _see_ it, skeezer?"

"Actually, yes," Allen retorted. "Yet I was too distracted by how devastatingly _sexy_ I am—so, please, feel free to just clear off on the mutilation called my ear and it's jewelry."

The Japanese man snorted, turning the steering wheel into the main street from the school. "How was school?" he asked sarcastically. "Did you learn anything new?"

"I learned Allen has, like, an _earring_ and a half-stalker." Lenalee replied. "And Catholics are cuter than Protestants—no offense, Al!"

"He _smiles_ so much, though!" Allen said with a distressed expression. "I've never seen anyone who smiled so much without realizing how bloomin' _creepy_ they look!"

The van swerved a little as Kanda turned in his seat to look at him, scowling. "Now I _know_ you were lying when you were all 'oh, yes, I _do_ look at myself in the mirror—cheers!'"

"Why do you love the sound of my voice so much?" the British boy asked with an overly exaggerated sigh. "I mean, if it helps, I can filch my uncle's recorder and whisper sweet nothings into it. You can play the tape while jacking off—ow!" He rubbed his forehead, clicking his tongue in disdain. The can of Pepsi rolled away from him as the van rolled over the concrete street. "I'm only trying to make your life better."

"If you, like, _ceased_ to exist," Kanda replied, putting his hand back on the wheel. "You'd be wowed at how _excellent_ my life would be."

----

August 15th, 1985.

Lavi must've been gay—that was the only logical explanation for the older teenager at the moment.

"What? You don't like my bandana?" he asked with a pout. "Come on, it makes me look beautiful."

"Hey," Kanda said suddenly, glancing up from plucking notes on his guitar. "I went into your room yesterday—not sure why, but the mirror was broken."

Allen wanted to give him a high-five for some inconceivable reason. "You said the same thing about your earrings last time—I'm not _getting_ rainbow headband, Lavi." He touched his forehead with a frown. "I like my face just the way it is. Except for the part where I don't."

"Hmm?" Lavi cocked an eyebrow, fixing his headband. "What's wrong with your face?"

Kanda opened his mouth, but Allen got in before the older teenager could make one of his infamous unnecessary comments. "If I answered that," he replied. "Well, it would be much easier if I just wrote a chaptered biography and sold it to you."

"Speaking of selling—Tokusa says hi," the redhead reported with a grin. "And he's sending you an awesome package."

Um. _Eww_. "Is he interested in me sexually?" Allen demanded, hitting his fist on the synthesizer, causing a plethora of electronic notes to screech out of the amplifier. "Because if he is, I swear to my Lord above that I will no longer be responsible for my actions."

"If you got drunk, you wouldn't even have to bring the Lord into this."

"If I got drunk, I'd be no better than Cross."

Kanda snorted, strumming his guitar like a country singer. "Got milk?" he muttered, glancing at the boy across from him.

"What are you—a bloody elephant?" Allen asked. "Do you have some sort of selective memory that only comes into play when I am around? My _God_ you are such a freak!"

"I'm not the one that talks like a little girl, _little girl_!"

"Oh, right, you're the one that _looks_ like one!"

"If it makes you guys feel better," Lavi interjected. "You can, like, _metamorphose_ and become the perfect little girl. Danny Elfman would _love_ you, then!"

Allen paused, looking over at the one-eyed teenager. "I'm sorry, but what the bloody _hell_ are you talking about?" he asked slowly.

"He's talking about the lead singer of _Oingo Boingo_," Kanda explained with an eye roll. "Because, apparently, it was _totally_ the appropriate moment to mention him."

"It wasn't." Allen said.

"We've got so much in fucking common."

Lavi shrugged, yawning. "Hey, if you guys kept on, there would've been a fight." He smiled. "And, as much money as I would pay to see Al on the ground with a ripped shirt while breathing heavily, it would be a total bummer because I wasn't the reason."

"Definitely gay," the British boy whispered to himself, sighing. "There's no way around it."

"I could've told you that," Kanda muttered. "And I've known him more than just months."

Allen hummed his acknowledgment of the statement, attention drifting back to his synthesizer. He touched a few keys experimentally, still very much in love with the sound of music—Julia Andrews not included, of course. The band's biggest event so far was only a couple of weeks away, and Cross was still steadfast on keeping him home. Even Link had gotten involved, trying to persuade him to stay afterschool for tutoring—even though it was only the fourth day of school and it sounded like he was coming on to the teenager. Link was _very_ good at seeming like he was coming on to him.

"—Federico," Lenalee said as she stepped into the garage, going straight for Allen. "Did you do his homework?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, blinking. "I apologize, I wasn't listening."

"Space cadet," she laughed, flicking his forehead. "I asked if you did his homework. I need to, uh, compare."

"If you want to cheat," Allen said with a raised eyebrow and a smile. "Then just tell me. Believe me, I can give you _tips_."

"I'm really trying to compare!" Lenalee insisted, gesticulating wildly. "But—I just need to make sure my answers are right, so I don't look like a total hoser when I hand him my paper."

"Err, well, right." He scratched behind his neck. "I mean, there's no guarantee that my paper—"

"Bull," she cut him off, hands on her hips. "I mean, why aren't you in _AP_ Physics? Because you're eating up the General class like it's your lunch. Which means you tear into it and leave absolutely nothing for the rest of us."

"I believe I got the analogy before you felt the need to explain it," Allen replied blandly. "And I can only take AP Physics in grade twelve. Believe me, I do not _want_ to be in that class."

"But, did you do the homework?"

"Yes, I did." He sighed. "It's in my knapsack, next to your coat rack. Please don't take anything from it."

"Psh, why would I want to steal junk from _your_ backpack?" Lenalee replied with a sniff, waving a hand in dismissal. "Be back later!" She trotted back to the main part of the house, closing the door behind her with a delicate click.

Lavi furrowed his eyebrows. "Who the hell is this Federico?" he asked. "He sounds like a creep."

"Oh, but he _is_. He's the kind of man that smiles most of the time and asks you questions in a way where you don't know if he's being sarcastic or sincere," Allen explained, brushing locks of his hair out the way of his eyes.

"…" Lavi coughed lowly in his throat, his one eye darting about nervously. "You know, I wonder if we should pack a cooler for the trip!" It was obvious he was changing the subject.

"I don't _eat_ half the shit you guys do," Kanda replied stiffly. He hummed in thought. "Well, at least Hypocrite Hoser over there. If anything, _you_ don't eat half the shit I do."

"Yuu, you're just a regular comedian," the redhead retorted. "I swear I'm gonna become Muslim one day, just to see how you cope with having half your material outta use."

"I vote for the cooler," Allen stated, holding up his red hand while fiddling with the pitch of the synthesizer with his right. "With a lot of soda. And chips. Can you fit hotdogs in a cooler?"

Kanda stared at him for a good moment. "Why would you put anything with the word '_hot_' in a _cooler_?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

"Why would anyone hire an idiot, Mr. I-Work-As-A-Backdoor-Bartender?" the British boy sniped back, smiling.

"Are you calling me—"

"Gay? Yes, I am, actually."

Lavi hit the bass drum pedal on accident, barking a laugh that caused him to bump his head on the cymbals. "Holy _shit_ they don't call you Hypocrite Hoser for nothing, Brit. Fuck!" He hit his chest with his fist several times, coughing. "Y-you, you need to become a professional. Like, an actor or something—I'd pay really good money to see you do this kind of shit on TV."

"I can't possibly be a hypocrite because—"

"'_I'm not gay,_'" Kanda mimicked in a tone of voice one octave higher than usual. "We heard—but, we just don't believe you."

"Sod off." Allen glared at the older teenager. "You can't speak for everyone, twit."

"He can speak for me," Lavi offered with a grin.

"You have no right to talk until it is safe for me to take this earring out of my bloody ear," the fifteen-year-old replied calmly. He touched the jewelry just to remember it was there, and it unnerved him how he was getting used to the constant weight on his ear.

"W'ever," the nineteen-year-old flickered out his tongue, licking his dry lips. "Oh, and, Al? Is your uncle down with you goin' to the _Battle_ yet?"

"Um." Allen rubbed his chin, embarrassed. "If I say _no_, then—"

"What are you telling this man?" Kanda demanded, scowling. "Because you are _so_ not doing it right, however you're going about it! I mean, shit, just tell him you'll do something drastic and make him see it your way."

"The only way I could possibly make him see it my way is if I possessed some sort of mind-reading glasses," the younger boy replied. "He's a very stubborn fellow—won't listen to a word unless it's coming from a pretty slapper with breasts the size of her head."

"Do we need to dress you up?" Lavi asked with a hint of over-enthusiasm. "Like, get you a skirt and some water balloons? Because, dude, I swear to God I am a professional at that kind of shit. Just look at Yuu—he used to be a _man_."

"I don't believe it," Allen said with a pseudo-shocked facial expression, and he blew a kiss at the Japanese man when he gave him a preview of his middle finger. "Oh, come off it. It was a joke."

"I know." Kanda said sarcastically. "That's why you're still alive, punk."

"Anyway!" Lavi stretched his arms, scrunching up his nose as he thought. "If anything, you might need to be kidnapped."

"Excuse me?"

"Kidnapped!" the percussionist clasped his hands together, grinning diabolically. "Fuck, I'm a friggin' genius! No wonder Harvard wanted me so badly!" He scratched underneath his bandana, smirking. "It's gonna be _deadly_! Man, you won't even believe it."

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "I still don't believe the pure _madness_ that is pouring from your lips. Feel free to come back to the world of the _sane_—Kanda's just visiting, don't worry."

Kanda huffed. "I'm going to choke you one day."

"That's very kinky."

"Dude, quit being so _gay_."

"Virtually impossible, but back to my awesome plan!" Lavi exclaimed, hitting the bass drum pedal on accident again. "It'll be easy as, uh, as someone really, really promiscuous. I don't know. Your uncle."

"Well, he _is_ very loose," Allen agreed with a small shrug. "Continue."

"All you need to do is call Yuu on Wednesday," the one-eyed man explained, one finger extended upwards. "If your uncle says yes, then we'll just pick you up Thursday morning. But, if he says _noooo_—"

"You're gonna get kidnapped," Kanda finished, frowning. "Dude, that can backfire so fucking hard we'll be _scorched_."

"Hey." Lavi slowly raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over his Gap-clad chest. "I'm a fucking _genius_. We're gonna be conspicuous about it—Al's almost as smart as I am, and he can use those sexy eyes to get Link off of his trail, so he'll be in the clear. I mean, we're gonna have to come at five or four in the morning though—so, I'd suggest that you, like, not go to sleep that day."

"Nine-hour ride," Allen muttered, pursing his lips in disapproval. He couldn't possibly sit in the back of that van for such a long time.

"Woo. _Hoo_." Kanda agreed in a deadpan voice.

"C'mon, men!" Lavi whined. "It'll be a flash. We come, we go, and Al's uncle won't even know what _hit_ him."

_Yes he will_, Allen thought with a sigh. _And I'm going to be grounded until my bloody graduation._

"You understand, Al?"

"Hmm?" _I'm dead, I'm dead, I'd like to be cremated and then sent back to England to be sat on top of my father's grave because I am _so bloody dead_._ "Oh, yes, but one question." There was one question that was itching in the back of his head since the beginning of this sodding _plan_.

Lavi quirked an eyebrow. "Shoot it off, Brit."

"Did you _really_ get accepted into Harvard?"

----

August 21st, 1985.

When push came to shove—Physics was really one of the most interesting boring subjects one could ever be forced to take to complete their education.

"Especially considering the connection between energy and matter in the science," their Catholic teacher said, smiling as always. "The scientific method is most definitely _essential_ in conducting experiments of the physical matter…"

_Blinding_, Allen thought with as much excitement he could muster. Unfortunately, it wasn't much, because he ended up sighing as Mr. Federico turned around to scribble the scientific method on the chalkboard.

Chalk was poisonous—the poor teacher shouldn't write so much with it, especially if he wanted to live.

That should be his new educational campaign—'Chalk: Killing Education Softly but Surely.'

Maybe he should run for class president.

A ball of paper hit the side of his head, making him blink. He looked down at his desk, eyeing the culprit with a raised eyebrow and a frown. He looked over at his only friend in the classroom, who was waving at him as conspicuously as possible.

The white-haired boy straightened out the paper, glancing up to make sure the Physics teacher was still killing himself by using the sedimentary rock called _chalk_.

_I want 2 do somethin really rad 4 the battle_, the paper read, and Allen smiled despite himself.

He scribbled back, _Like what, exactly?_ And tossed the paper back at the girl.

A couple of minutes later, he got the ball back.

_Like_, it read in curvaceous feminine handwriting. _i dunno—let's do something 2 the van!_

_Are you trying to get me murdered?_ he wrote, eyes wide. _Because that's what it looks like. Kanda will slaughter me if something were to happen to his beloved vehicle and he had the feeling that I was involved!_

_Damn u write fast,_ it read on it's return. _But! It's ok, we're gonna get tiedoll 2 do it._

_Do what?_

_Paint graffiti on the van, duh! Its funny how u r so spacey…_

"Are you bloody _serious_?" Allen demanded out loud, looking at the girl.

Mr. Federico glanced at him. "Allen," he started with a sigh. "If you have Tourette's, then I feel Mr. Link could've _warned_ me before—"

"N-no!" Allen insisted, holding up his hands as a sign of surrender. "I don't have Tourette's or anything of the sort, sir! I was just surprised that you use the step of theorizing the experiment before the hypothesis!"

"Hmm?" the light-haired man stared at him. "Does your English education teach you otherwise?"

"Actually," and Allen thanked God for saving him. "It does."

"Would you mind explaining it to me?"

"Of course, sir," the teenager stood up, slipping the note into his back pocket of his fitted jeans.

----

August 26th, 1985.

"Kanda's going to kill me," Allen bemoaned as Tiedoll happily ran his paintbrush over the side of the Chevrolet. "And I'm going to die."

"Man, Tiedoll is a _great_ painter," Lenalee noted with a finger on her lips. "This'll look so awesome when it's done."

"I wish I will be alive to see it."

Lavi snorted. "Quit being melodramatic, baby," he said. "Yuu couldn't hurt a kitten, let alone _you_."

Allen looked at him with a suspicious expression. "Are we even talking about the same person?" he asked. "Because I don't _think_ we are."

"He really won't!" the redhead insisted, patting down his jean pockets and reaching into one victoriously. "I mean, I've been pissing him off for _years_ and I only got off with a missing eye—he can't be _that_ dangerous."

"That…that's _seriously_ how you lost your eye?" Allen asked, eyes wide.

"What? No!" Lavi laughed, touching his eye patch. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, grinning. "I'm much manlier than _that_, kid. Oh, fuck, I know I'm gonna seem so stupid asking this, but do you have a li—"

Allen had the lighter out before he could even finish the question.

"…" Lavi inhaled the smoke from the cigarette, perplexed. "I'm sorry, but are you _hiding_ something from us?"

"Don't be overdramatic," Allen replied with a sniff. "It's a force of habit."

"Oh, well. Um." The smoke slipped out of the redhead's mouth in languid wisps, and he leaned back with an odd expression. "I, for _cereal_, did not see that coming."

"It'd be easier if you had another eye," Lenalee commented.

"Hardy har har," Lavi grumbled, sticking out his tongue. "God, why are we even a band? We should be a comedy troupe."

"I call clown," Allen said immediately, grinning. He fiddled with his earring as a habit. "You can be the lion."

"What about me?" Lenalee asked, smiling. "I wanted to be the lion!"

"You can be the elephant woman."

"I said comedy troupe—not circus!" Lavi scratched his head, chuckled. "Come on, guys, don't mess with my words like that!"

Tiedoll let out a cry of happiness, and the three teenagers imminently looked in his direction. "Yuu will be so happy!" the French man said, hands on his hips. "I'm so glad you all let me do this for his van—it's like a big metal canvas! Such perfection!"

"I'm going to be castrated," Allen deadpanned. "And then he's going to decapitate me and put my head on his door so people can learn of my fate and learn from my mistakes."

"You're so overdramatic," Lavi said, blowing cigarette smoke out through his nose. "I mean, what can he do to you that's so bad?"

----

"_What the f-f-_fuck_ have you done to my car_?" Kanda shrieked. "Oh my fucking God my van has been vandalized beyond all goddamn recognition!"

"I can recognize it just fine, actually." Lavi said helpfully.

Kanda, who's breathing had not yet returned back to normal, turned around so fast that his ponytail almost whipped the metal side of the van. "Old man!" he snapped, stomping over to Tiedoll and obviously holding back from punching the living shit out of his ex-foster father. "What the hell is your _problem_? Why did you do this to my goddamn van? _Why_?"

"Well!" Tiedoll laughed, patting the Japanese teenager's shoulder. "Little Miss Lee called me on my office phone, and when I found out that is was for you, well, I just _had_ to go through with it! And Allen was such a dear to give me a hand on the outline on the metal—he's such a fine young man!"

"Who the fuck is All—_you_." Kanda turned to look at Allen, who was trying to hide behind Lenalee as inconspicuously as possible. "I should've known this was all of _your_ idea!"

"It wasn't!" the white-haired boy said immediately, holding up his hands as a sign of his innocence. "I swear to my Lord above that I had nothing to do with this plan!"

"I'm going to kill you!"

"Please be gentle!"

"You didn't even _spell_ it correctly!" Kanda continued with rage, pointing at his van. "Why the fuck would you vandalize something wrong, bitch?!"

Tiedoll chuckled in delight. "Actually, it's French," he explained, gesturing towards the golden graffiti on the Chevrolet van. "Instead of putting _Battle of the Bands: 1985!_, I put _Bataille des Bandes: 1985!_" He smiled, his stubble increasing his loveable image. "It seems more sophisticated and, oh, _sexy_."

"…_eww_," Kanda gagged, grimacing. "Why is that word even in your dictionary?"

"What? _Bataille_?" the French man looked confused. "Well, that _is_ my mother language—"

"No! _Sexy_!" He gagged more, stepping back. "Fuck, my van." Kanda glared heatedly at the fifteen-year-old pianist of the band. "I'm blaming you, kid."

"I knew it." Allen resigned himself to his fate.

----

September 4th, 1985.

Allen really didn't know if the _Bataille des Bandes_ was truly worth all of this trouble—but, he had to give in some sort of effort for the band.

"Allen," Link looked him in the eyes, sighing. "What you are asking of me…is really odd and makes me wonder if you might be using marijuana." His expression looked very slightly desperate, as though begging him to be able to pass a drug test.

Allen nodded. "I understand that complete, Mr. Link," he replied. "But, I'm not on drugs. I just truly do need to take those two days off for personal reasons. By the way, this pie is delicious."

The corners of the man's lips twitched. "Thank you," he said. "I made it myself." The vice-principal intertwined his fingers, frowning. "So, all you want is…"

"To be marked as present for the next two days," Allen explained. "And ensure that my classes don't skip too far ahead without me. I can't believe how absolute _divine_ the apple is in this pie!"

"I use name brand sugar," Link admitted. "Which makes quite the difference."

"I can _tell_." The slice suddenly disappeared from the boy's plate.

Link coughed into his fist, getting back to the subject at hand. "Is that all?" he asked.

"Yes." Allen pulled that face that teenagers do when they _know_ they're doing something wrong but want support anyway. "Would you _please_ do it, Mr. Link?" The earring sparkled almost erotically in the office and Allen looked at him with his gray eyes while licking misplaced crumbs from his lips. "For me?"

Link froze, blue eyes wide. "Allen—"

"Well, that was homosexual," Allen muttered, leaning back. "Truly sorry about that, but really." The boy looked much too hopeful for Link's resilience.

"…" the blond man stiffly nodded. "But! I have no control over the lesson plans of any teacher, so please know that much, Allen."

"Thank you!" Allen enthused with a grin. "I'll always be in your debt!" He stood up, picking up the pie pan with him. "Oh, and could we keep this mum from Cross? Thanks again and cheers!"

He was gone before Link could even realize that his pie was stolen.

----

Cross was in his usual five o'clock state of being laid out on the couch by the time Timcanpy clambered on top of the man by way of Allen's instructions.

"What the fuck, Tim." Cross grumbled, looking up at the yellow dog's wet nose with bleary eyes.

Timcanpy licked his nose. "Woof," he replied.

"Do I have to throw you over the couch or are you going to get the hell off of me by yourself?" the red-haired man asked calmly, finding it hard to breathe properly because the dog was so much heavier than ever. What the fuck was this kid feeding him?

"Arooo," Timcanpy whined, nuzzling his cheek.

"I'll take that as a you want to be thrown," and Cross tried to shove the dog off, but Timcanpy was steadfast in being stubborn. "Okay, seriously, why aren't you eating the fucking dog food for puppies anymore? You need to shrink, Tim."

Allen stepped in, smiling. "I love him just the way he is, isn't that right Tim?"

"Woof!" Timcanpy barked, panting with a grin.

"What do you want, boy?" Cross asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Because I'd like to breathe any day now."

"I just need to ask you this one more time," and the British boy coughed into his fist. "May I _please_ be allowed to go to the Battle of the Bands? I promise you, I will put in my biggest effort to win and then we can get money to, uh, _do things_. Like. Buy alcohol and be sinners."

Cross sighed, running his fingers through his long hair. "Goddammit, brat," he snapped, really shoving Timcanpy off of him. "If I said no the first time—why do you keep asking? Jesus Christ, I can't even eat my goddamn dinner without you and your _stupid_ dialect going 'so, if I could be so obliged to ask, but may I please skip off to be gay in Georgia?'"

"I'm not skipping off to be gay, though."

"No," the man said firmly, scowling. "You can _not_ go to Woodstock, 1985 edition. That is the end of the fucking discussion, so just _leave it_."

"But—" Allen opened his mouth, but shut it as soon as Cross fixed his spectacles atop his nose. "Cross…"

"I have your best interests at heart," Cross stated seriously. "And it would be in your best interest to just stay here and get your education and stay as _far away_ as fucking _possible_ from the Battle of the Bands."

Allen clicked his tongue in disdain, huffing. "Thank you," he said with as much insincerity as he could possibly stuff into his voice. "Excuse me while I tell my fellow band members the horrible, terrible, most _unfortunate_ news."

"You go do that," Cross replied, scratching between Timcanpy's pointed ears. "And sound like you're in pain, too—like it _burns_ you not to go."

"I'll be sure to try." The teenager walked off stiffly, sighing heavily.

Picking up the phone from the kitchen wall, Allen tapped at the numbers on the dial.

"Kanda?" he started, peeking around the archway. "Yes, well, I think we'll have to go along with Plan B."

* * *

No, it's not Waysie's (lolol Abreaction gave this fic the most lolriffic nickname ever) birthday—I just wanted to have an early update for the first time in a long time.

Emiggax has lost her internets. IT IS A VERY SAD AFFAIR BAWWW

Oh, I added a small instance of Link/Allen just to prove that virtually—_any pairing is possible_. If you think too hard, you're going to explode.  
(Father Federico is the priest from the manga that speaks three fluent languages: English, probably Spanish, and SEKRIT CODE.)(He scared me.)

And, even though I rarely give foreshadowing hints in these Author's Notes, I want you all to know one thing: The things that Cross says are very, _very_ important in regards to the BotB. Which begins next chapter.

We'll see you in nine days! :D


	32. Another One Bites the Dust

_THIRTY-TWO_

September 5th, 1985.

Allen was considering writing a will.

It would go like this: he would leave all of his food to Timcanpy, his education to Link, and he'll have his synthesizer melted down into a container so he can be cremated and sent to be with his father.

"_I wish this grave_," hummed the radio in his room, and he continued packing his clothes into a black duffle bag. "_Would open up and swallow me alive_."

He frowned, swallowing back more of his thick fear. The accidental soundtrack was _definitely_ not making him feel any better about life and how he was going to survive his uncle's infamous, inevitable _rage_.

It was better if he just turned it off, as Cross _should have_ been asleep at this point—Allen would be a Kanda-brand of idiot if he got caught because the _radio_ was on. And he certainly didn't want to be on his band-mate's level of stupidity, since that would say something significant about his character.

Allen touched the knob on the radio, silencing the small transmitter. And, since it was basically four in the morning, the eerie quiet of the house was more apparent. It was at times like these where he hated the fact that Cross didn't snore like the arsehole he was.

Then, seconds after he turned off the radio—Lavi knocked on his window.

"_Briiit_," the redhead whispered, wearing a ski-mask and a sleeveless black shirt as though it made him conspicuous. "_Briiit_—open the window!" He tapped at the glass again, leaning forward on the tree at a dangerous angle.

Allen frowned, zipping up his bag with some difficulty—maybe he packed too many pairs of jeans for four days. "What the _blast_," he muttered, stepping over a pile of books pertaining to alchemy and how to achieve it. He reached the window, but made a cutting motion with his throat at his older friend. "Keep _quiet_, Lavi—my uncle just might be awake!" he scolded as he opened the window. "And, why use the window? Did you not learn your lesson _last_ time?"

Lavi, who climbed in with some problems, winked at him. Allen needed to find it in his heart to one day tell the drummer that winking just didn't _work_ with him. "Baby, the only lesson I've learned around you is how to buy pants if I want to kill myself by asphyxiation." His lips smiled within the mask. "Besides, your uncle is sleeping as dead as a dog—I checked the other tree."

"I wasn't aware my backyard had more than one tree," the British boy replied blandly. He sighed, raking his red hand through his hair. "Well, let's get this over with. I'm hungry and I need to plan out my obituary."

"Great!" enthused Lavi as quietly as possible. He looked around the room, wincing at the weaponry. "Do you have your toothbrush?"

"Is that a stupid question?" Allen retorted, and then shook his head. "I apologize, that was rude. Yes, I do have my toothbrush, my clothes, an extra-pair of shoelaces, a miniature first-aid kit, a comb, a hairbrush, chocolate, a photo album of Timcanpy, and a pencil."

"…_Dude_, are you _gay_?" the redhead asked with a narrowed eye. "Jesus Christ, you pack like a chick—it's way too unnecessary! Lenalee pulled the _same shit_!"

"Be _quiet_!" Allen hissed, clamping his hand over the nineteen-year-old's mouth. "I swear, if I had to've come on to Mr. Link for _nothing_—you will rue the day you woke up my uncle."

"Okay, okay—wait, you did _what_?"

"Please, take this down," and the white-haired boy pushed his duffle bag into Lavi's arms. "And, please, be careful with it. When you fall down the tree, make sure it falls down on top of you. You should be soft enough."

"Gee, thanks, dude." Lavi huffed. "And, a_ny_way, my plan to get down is _foolproof_."

"Which is wonderful, but you're a _genius_." Allen cocked an eyebrow, smiling. "I think you might want to rework it before you kill yourself trying to climb down a tree."

"Che'yeah _right_," the redhead waved a hand in dismissal, stepping back to the window's edge. "Watch and be _amazed_—I'm a fucking ninja when it comes to espionage shit like this. By the way, you might want a pillow for the trip." And he leapt from the window to the branch, duffle bag in arm.

Allen looked down from the windowsill, watching the aforementioned "genius ninja" struggle to hold on to the tree branch with one arm.

"Please don't die," he whispered, eyes darting to the side where he _knew_ Cross slept. "And if you do—be silent about it."

"_Briiit_," Lavi whined quietly. "Save me_!_"

"Oh, right, just let me get my lifejacket and my rope. Hidi-ho!" Allen rolled his eyes. "It's not _that_ far down…just, ten or so feet."

"I don't know if I should hate you," Lavi replied with a disturbed expression. "Or if I should love you more than usual."

"Please, stop loving me."

Lavi waved a hand in dismissal, "No can do-_ooo_!" and he fell, hitting the grassy ground with an audible thud. He looked up at the sky, dazed. "…_Fuck_."

"Are you okay?!" Allen asked, really worried this time. He grabbed a pillow from his bed and tucked it underneath his arm, and the boy climbed out the window with ease. "Oh, _bother_, how am I going to close this window?"

"_Dunno_," Lavi rasped, rubbing the back of his head. He winced. "_Augh_—the pain! The agony! The synonym to my physical anguish!"

"You remind me of standardized testing when you're in pain," Allen muttered, grasping tightly to the tree branch in front of his window. He'll just hope that Timcanpy or Cross closes it while he's gone. Maneuvering on the branch was difficult to a degree, as his eyes weren't accustomed to the lack of light quite yet. It was so dark outside, he mused as he carefully climbed to the thick trunk. He would think it was the dead of night if he hadn't checked his clock earlier.

"…Why aren't you on your ass down here with me?" Lavi demanded, blatantly offended.

Allen shimmied down the truck, his pillow safe underneath his arm. "Because I overestimated your intelligence," he teased in a whisper. The boy held out his pale hand, smiling. "Come on, up with you! I can only assume Kanda's waiting in his van in front of the house."

"For sure—_ow, ow, ow_," Lavi hissed, clicking his tongue in pain as he stood up shakily with the British boy's assistance. "I think I damaged my perfect ass, man. Hey, check for me, would you?"

"I wish I wasn't so bloody opposed to violence sometimes," Allen said in a sigh, picking up his duffle bag. "Can you walk?"

"Lemme check—" the masked teenager took one step forward. "—yeah, I'm good." He stumbled ahead, leaving Allen to follow him with an amused expression. "Ow, ow, _ow_—fuck, my ass kind of hurts."

"That sounds rather queer," the younger boy replied, shrugging lightly. "Well, you could always use my shoulder if—oh, wow, no wonder you don't have a girlfriend when you move _that_ fast."

Lavi sniffed, pulling up a portion of the mask with his free hand to stick out his tongue. "Fuck you, _babe_," he said, readjusting his weight on the boy. "Okay, now, all we need to do is get to Yuu's Chevy, which should be smooth as long as there aren't any traps on the way to the front yard."

"Not that I know of," Allen replied. Of course, Cross could've easily planted traps just in case the boy was going to pull some _shite_ like this, but Allen liked to give him the benefit of the doubt. The man was much too lazy and would have his poor nephew do all the work instead—which, to be truthful, wouldn't be very effective.

"Woof!" and Allen snapped out of his inner-musings. "_Woof_!"

Much to his chagrin, Timcanpy slowly stalked around the corner, gazing at them with narrowed golden eyes. It was at this moment where Allen realized that his dog was slightly much larger than he was seven months ago, as odd as it seemed.

This could not be very good.

"Oh _shit_ he's going to eat us," Lavi grumbled, smacking his forehead. "I knew I should've brought a gun!"

"Don't you even _think_ about touching Tim with, _with_," the British boy bit his bottom lip, closing his eyes. "I can't even _imagine_ the terror you attempted to make me think about."

"Okay, fine," the redhead held up his hands, sighing. "I won't think of shooting your dog anymore—but, if I am missing a limb after this shit, you _will_ be sued faster than you can say 'Judaism'!"

"Woof," Timcanpy was not impressed with the conversation or being ignored. He bared his excessively white teeth, furrowing his brow and pulling off the whole _dangerous dog_ look quite well.

Allen still believed that his dog couldn't even hurt a mitten. "Tim," he started, lifting up his wrinkled, red hand cautiously. The dog stiffened, his body tense for attack. "_Tim_."

"_Grrr_," Timcanpy snarled lowly, setting back on his haunches—and the white-haired teenager could almost feel his heart breaking.

He took a small step forward. "Timcanpy," he said sternly. "I know Cross put you up to this—otherwise, you wouldn't even _dare_ bare your teeth at me, let alone this extra drama. You wouldn't even do it to _Lavi_," he added as an afterthought.

"I love you, man," Lavi said helpfully to the dog.

"Right," Allen gazed into his dog's golden eyes. "Tim, it's me, _Allen_. I love you more than that sodding excuse for an uncle ever will—_you know I do_."

Timcanpy was a very intelligent dog. So, Allen was hoping to his Lord above in the sky that he could make it to the van with both of his legs still attached to his body.

"…" Timcanpy's tongue poked out his mouth, and he looked away from his owner's gray eyes. "Mmrr," he grumbled, wagging his tail in embarrassment.

"Thank you so much Tim!" Allen said jovially, and he fell to one knee with his arms wide open. "I'll never forget this, boy—I love you."

Timcanpy was in his arms in seconds, nudging his cheek with his wet nose and licking his scar.

Lavi coughed into a fist. "Hey, uh, listen," he started slowly. "Tim's a mad rad dog, I do say I agree—but, we might need to get a move on, A-S-A-P. You know, m-m-_motor_!"

"Oh, yes!" the pianist stood up shakily, brushing off the seat of his fitted jeans and his knees. "Let's go, shall we?"

"Oh, we _shall_."

The two band members jogged off towards the front lawn with swift feet, eyeing anything that seemed like it had the capabilities to kill them. Cross was officially on to them and The Enemy.

"What the fuck was taking you bitches so long?"

Allen looked at Kanda's van, and he really wanted to laugh at how the intricate French graffiti of the van's side clashed terribly with the Japanese man's horrible personality.

"Sorry," he replied with a sheepish expression. "My uncle has proven himself to be a bit of a prick—"

"Watch out!" Lavi exclaimed, shoving the boy to the side.

With a small whistle from the wind, a hammer hit the concrete, successfully denting the white plaster in an ominous sight.

"Oh _shit_ this fucker just threw a fucking _hammer_," Kanda stated the obvious with a mortified expression, and he tried to step on the gas as quickly as possible. "Lemme go, Lenalee! This psycho is throwing motherfucking _hammers_ at people—my van cost more than the brat!"

"Gee thanks!" Allen commented as soon as his heart decided to come back into his chest. He looked up with a wince, and felt any urge to smile die on his lips. "…Cross. Um. _Hi_."

The red-haired man leaned on the windowsill with his elbows, twirling his gun in his hand. "Punk-ass brat," he replied with a nod. He pointed the gun down, cocking it. "Get back in the house—you're grounded."

This would be the perfect chance to not die, Allen mused silently, staring into his uncle's hazel eyes despite the two story difference. "I'm, err, I'm going to have to say no," he replied, and realized that his mouth was schizophrenic because it had a completely different _personality_.

"Is that so?" Cross hummed, and Allen honestly to god thought he was going to get shot at this very moment. "Allen _fucking_ Walker, I swear to that _God_ you love so fucking much—if you don't get in this house—"

"No, uncle!" Allen retorted, holding his pillow closer to his chest. "This is one of the few chances this band will get to make it, and I'm not going to ruin it for them!"

"I called you by your _real fucking name_, boy," Cross hissed, the gun still aimed right at the British teenager. "At least give me some goddamn credit by getting back in this house and going to bed—you've got an education in the morning."

"I—"

"If you go to this Battle of the Boys," Cross continued, his aim wavering. "You _will_ regret it—I swear to God you will regret ever being there."

"Then, I'll just suffer the regret!" Oh dear—he was running out of Teenage Rebellion—they needed to get inside that van before he _stopped_ meaning what he was going to say. "Let me go without, uh, _shooting_ me!"

"When you come back," the bespectacled man replied, retracting his pistol. "And you are _crying_—don't expect any sympathy from _me_."

"Don't worry—I _won't_."

Lavi was doing a cartwheel down the walkway, apparently still under the impression that Cross was going to shoot them all. "Brit, do like _The Hussle_ and get your groove on!" He paused, brushing off the palms of his hands. "And by _get your groove on_ I mean _let's get the fuck out of here_!"

Allen had already jumped the fence, duffle bag and pillow still tightly in his arms. "What are you _doing_ back there?" he demanded, trying to open the back of the van. "We need to go, _go_!"

"Shit, man, don't go climbing fences and shit—my ass still hurts!"

"I _knew it_," Kanda muttered, and Lenalee smacked him upside the head. "Ow!"

The moment Lavi had slammed the back of the van closed, the guitarist slammed his foot on the gas, and they tore through the neighborhood at approximately four thirty-nine in the morning.

"Allen," Lavi breathed, holding a hand to his beating heart. "Your uncle is awesome—"

"That man is sodding _crazy_," Allen replied, and he couldn't even cover his mouth to regain some composure. "I bloody _mean it_."

"Totally," Lenalee included, rubbing her temples. "Jesus _Christ_ it was like watching a Broadway musical about people dying. '_No! I will not let you go!'_" she sang, a hand dramatically to her chest. "_Let me gooo! —I will not let you go! –Let me go, let me go, oh no, no, no, no, no, no no no, _no!'"

"I totally agree," Kanda said with a shaking head and wide eyes. "…a goddamn _hammer_…"

----

Allen forgot about one important process in the entire 'road trip' business.

"It's a nine-hour car ride!" Lenalee said, straightening out the map. "You're gonna need somebody to take over for you at _some point_—I mean really!"

"And you think it's gonna be _you_?" Kanda demanded, hands tight on the steering wheel. "You and your blazin' Asian ass?"

"You really _don't_ listen to yourself," Allen whispered in shock, eyes wide. "I never believed it before!"

"Shut up, Al!" Lenalee said semi-playfully. She turned back to the guitarist with a pout, looking like she _really_ wanted to cross her arms in displeasure. "What does my ass being Asian have to do with _anything_?"

"Lenalee," Kanda started with a sigh, shaking his head. "_Lenalee_. I don't know how to tell you this…but, you're Chinese."

"What the _hell_—"

"Chinese people—actually, anyone from the Far East—cannot drive," the Japanese man continued with a shrug. "It's been scientifically _proven_, so can you relate?"

"What science are _you_ talking about?! National Geographic?" Lenalee demanded, cocking an eyebrow. "Because, my brother—"

"Your brother studies fucking robots. _Robots_. Like they're gonna rise up and kill us all in the future—"

Lavi, who had his face buried in Allen's pillow on the boy's lap, raised his head with a small wince. "Actually, dude, Schwarzenegger. _Kyle Reese_."

"That's a fucking _movie_, dumbass." Kanda sniffed, rolling his dark blue eyes. "Hoser—that's so last year _anyway_."

"Last year, shlast year—it's still a possibility." Lavi grumbled, laying his head back down in his younger friend's lap.

"Lavi, you're dangerously close to my crotch," Allen said with a sigh, receiving a mumbled reply in return. He did not know if he should be alarmed that he was no longer truly _bothered_ by the homosexual affection. In fact—it was actually kind of flattering. As long as Tyki Mikk wasn't trying to pull down his pants.

Allen hummed in thought, thumping the back of his head against the metal interior of the van. He kind of _missed_ Tyki Mikk, now that he really thought about it.

"—but, you _are_ gonna get tired at some point, Kan-_da_," Lenalee continued. "And you're gonna need someone to drive for you, yeeeah?"

"Sure I will—just, not you."

"Oh, screw _you_, Jap."

"Not my type," Kanda retorted, which made everybody, including the radio, falter in shock.

Allen was first to open his mouth. "You have a _type_?" he demanded, overly curious. "Why, here I was thinking you were just sexually attracted to me and my voice—I hadn't the slightest idea you had a _criteria_."

"Is it a woman?" Lavi asked, looking up again. "Do you like those blonde babes with the bodacious bodies? Oh, _especially_ if they're in their twenties or early thirties—then it's a total _strike_!"

"Dude, do you like older men or younger boys?" Lenalee asked with an interested glint, leaning close to her older friend. "Like, Lavi, just reversed or something? Because, if you were gay, I swear to God it'd be the funniest thing since sliced bread."

"_I asked of my reflection,_" included the radio. "_'Tell me—what is there to do?' Tempted by the fruit of another…_"

Kanda looked like he was either very offended or ready to crash the van. "Can we just drop the fucking subject?" he asked as calmly as he could without his voice belying his true anger. "Because that would be really _nice_ right about now."

"But," Allen tried, eyebrows furrowed. "You have _taste_—"

"Shut up, punk, or I will throw a fucking _hammer_ at your face."

"Oh, really bloody _nice_, Kanda. Did you think of that one yourself? Because it was just _dripping_ with creativity." Allen huffed, leaning back on the metal interior with his arms crossed. "…stupid men…"

"I'll drop the subject if you let me drive," Lenalee replied, grinning.

"…" Kanda turned the wheel onto the highway going north, and he suddenly felt the stress of a nine-hour road trip come upon him. "…_Fuck_." He gritted his teeth, glancing at the girl. "Okay, _okay_—you can drive for ten minutes, in _South Carolina_."

"Excellent!" the seventeen-year-old enthused, pumping her fist in the air. "It's gonna be so awesome!"

"But, when I get tired or some shit like that—Cyclops'll drive." Kanda finished with a smirk.

Allen sniffed. "Kamikaze samurai," he muttered. "Trying to get us all killed. Does Lavi-dearest even have a _license_ to drive?"

"Pshaw," Lavi said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Licenses are for _geeks_, man."

"But, you're a _genius_—"

"There's a difference, Brit," the redhead insisted. "There's a _really_ big difference."

"Not with you," Kanda muttered. He looked at the two through the rearview mirror, scowling. "Dude, you are fucking _mega_ close to the kid's crotch."

"What's that? I couldn't hear what you were saying over the _jealousy_ in your voice, Yuu Ol' Boy." Lavi replied, snuggling into the pillow with a smirk. "But, okay—I'll drive when you get tired."

"You didn't have a choice, _loser_," the Japanese man retorted, looking forward once more. "I'm not gonna let Miss Lee drive long distances, and I sure as _hell_ am not letting the brat behind the wheel of my van."

Allen sniffed, rolling his gray eyes. "I don't know how to drive _any_ way," he said. "And if I did—your car would long be crashed."

"I really like the way you admit you suck at driving," Kanda stated, glancing at Lenalee with accusatory eyes. "Unlike _some_ people."

"Just, ugh, just watch the road. You're about to take the next exit." The seventeen-year-old stared at the map once more, squinting in the slowly dispersing darkness. "Right! You need to get on the I-65 going west, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Lenalee flicked his nose, huffing. "One 'yeah' would've been just as cool, zeek," she said, ignoring the affronted look on her older friend's face.

Lavi turned over a little on the black pillow, breathing slowly. "We should'a brought a mattress," he grumbled with a yawn.

"Are you, dare I say it, un_comfortable_?"

"Hell yeah, my good man."

Allen's arse had been asleep for quite the while—he didn't know where _Lavi_ was for the past…whatever…time they'd been in the vehicle. "Oh!" he gasped, snapping his fingers. "Do you have the time?"

The redhead raised his right fist to Allen's eye level, where the analog clock read **5:21** for the morning.

Allen's stomach grumbled.

"Ooooh _shit_," Lavi cursed immediately, and the British boy bopped his head with a frown.

"Kanda," began Allen with a smile. "_Kan_da."

Kanda glanced at him through the rearview mirror once more. "What, punk?" he grouched.

"Might I ask you a question?"

"No. Shut up."

"Is there a cooler with food anywhere in here?"

The long-haired man snorted. "Of all the _stupid_ questions—do you see anything in this van but fucking bags and Lenalee's luggage? Bitch, we don't even have our _instruments_." He paused. "Well, I've got Mugen—don't know how _you_ losers are gonna handle it, but that's not my problem."

"A simple 'no' would've been _just_ as effective—for future notice," Allen muttered, tucking his more annoying locks of white hair behind his ear. He hummed in thought. "Does…does this mean we'll _stop_ for breakfast? At _McDonald's_?" Oh, there was no measure to how much he _loved_ a good Sausage McMuffin.

"Brat!" Kanda snapped, narrowing his eyes. "We need to spend our goddamn money _right_ for this event, not, uh," He thought about a good word. "_Floundering_ it on high-calorie shit like McDonald's."

"You shouldn't read the dictionary while you are driving," Allen advised wisely. "You might hurt yourself."

"I'm going to crash this fucking van, punk!"

Lenalee smacked his shoulder, scowling. "Kanda—no, not _that_ exit!" she snapped. "You aren't fit to drive, sir!"

"Back _up_, Lenalee! I'm going to kill us all!"

"I don't know why they would give a man with mental illness a driving permit," Allen said with a sigh. "And now I must die."

"Actually, you can cut out all the noise," Lavi muttered grumpily. "I'm tryin' to _sleep_ here."

Kanda paused, looking at the one-eyed drummer. "Am I supposed to give a damn or something?" he demanded, and Lenalee smacked him again.

"You're on the wrong side of the road!"

"Where I'm from—"

"Shut up, brat, or I will kill you _personally_."

----

"Captain's Log—eight thirty-one, AM," Lavi whispered, grinning. "_Score_."

"I wish I knew why you're snuggling with me," Allen deadpanned, an eyebrow cocked. He tried to wriggle for freedom, but the metal interior of the van trapped him, with Lavi as the more fleshy interior. "And, _please_, stop groping my arse."

"I thought that was your thigh."

"It's still lower than my bloody waist, Lavi. I feel _violated_."

Lavi pouted, running his palm higher along the tight denim. "By the way, your pants—" And he kind of hated the way Allen shut him up. He didn't _need_ to have his mouth covered, like _really_. "—mmph."

"How tight my pants are have nothing to do with how you live," Allen said with a smile. "And if you don't like them, _don't look_."

Which was stupid to say, because Lavi _loved_ how tight his pants were. He may have _one_ eye—but, he'll be damned if he didn't put it to great use.

"Why are you so fucking _gay_?" Kanda demanded, thumping his head on the steering wheel. "Jesus _Christ_ it's like watching a David Bowie music video—really fucking faggy."

"You'll get your turn!" Allen said sarcastically, clicking his tongue in disdain. "My Lord, you're the worst homophobe possible. You can't even hate Lavi's people properly." Lavi cocked an eyebrow, unaware if he should be offended or touched.

"I hate everyone equally—don't try to put yourself above the status quo, brat."

"Are we in South Carolina yet?" Lenalee whined, rubbing her temples. "I want to _driiive_."

"And I'm hungry," Allen added, sighing. "I think my stomach is eating itself—I'll deteriorate!"

"If that means that you're gonna die, then _go ahead_." Kanda smirked. "Make my day."

"Has anybody ever told you that you're a jackarse?"

"Have you ever existed?" Kanda raked his fingers through his dark hair, groaning. "This drive is getting fucking annoying—I'm bored and we need gas."

"Then go to a gas station, idiot."

Lavi yawned, covering his mouth loosely. "Yuu's just scared of getting out of the driver's seat before South Carolina—he thinks Lenalady's gonna jack it from him faster than you can say 'peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers' five times fast."

Allen poked his forehead, playfully frowning. "I do hate tongue-twisters, Lav'."

Kanda looked disturbed. "Did you just call him _love_, like a gay British guy?" he demanded, but then he rolled his eyes. "Never mind—you're most definitely qualified."

"I will never give you another nickname again," the British boy said to Lavi, annoyed. "And, Kanda, dear? Can we cut down on the bloody _gay_ jokes? It's, oh, an obscenely long car drive and I am getting _sick_ of them."

"Fine, we'll tawlk about yer bloody accent instead," Kanda replied, mimicking an English dialect—and rather badly at that. Allen looked respectably disgusted. "Whot's wrong, ah? Oh, wait, I _know_. It's because you'r'a _itch_."

"What the bloody hell—"

"You know, 'itch.'" Kanda explained normally, thank God. "It's Europenese for 'bitch.' _Doy_."

Allen stared at the older man, ignoring the hand on his hip. "Are you talking about _Cockney_?" he asked slowly, his eyebrows raised in horror. "…I'm not even _from_ up north, you moron!"

"Where ya from, laddie?"

"Stop with the bad accents!"

"Och?" the Japanese man clicked his tongue, turning the steering wheel. "Whot's that? Ya don't like the way I tawlk?"

"This is hilarious," Lavi commented.

"No, it _hurts_."

"I'll tell ye now, laddie," Kanda continued, smirking wider. "Ah'll give ye a choice—I'll tawlk like _this_ the entire trip, or I can use gay jokes. It's a bloomin' hard choice, ain't it?"

"I'm a happy homosexual," Allen said immediately. "Please stop talking like an idiot now."

Kanda nodded. "Good choice, brat."

----

"Hey, man!"

Kanda stared at the slow numbers on the gas pump, counting the money drained from his wallet.

"Man!"

Fuck, that was a lot of money for some gas. Thank _god_ he paid rent last week—this would've wrecked absolute havoc on his life if he hadn't. He is a responsible and mature adult after all.

"_Dude_."

"What the fuck do you want?" Kanda snapped, looking over to the side. A verifiable _brat_ had himself plastered to the side of his van, running their dirty fingers along his first sign of independence from that psycho of a foster father. "Get your goddamn dirty hands off my van, skeezer!"

"Oh, _dude_, but—" the brown-haired teenager fixed his hat, pouting. "—your van is mad _rocking_. I want to touch it more."

"If I had a girlfriend, I'd probably say something stupid in reply," Kanda said, eyeing the brat's shoes with perplexity. "Kid, why the hell are you wearing skates?"

"Because." The kid looked around, hands tucked in his pockets. "I _want_ to." He turned back at the van, squinting at the artistic décor. "Oh, wow, you're going to the _Battle of the Bands_?! That rocks—my bud and I were trying to make it there too!"

Kanda stifled a sigh. He _hated_ kids. "That's fucking _wonderful_, now go away." He wished he had a joint—but he left his paper and the weed to go with it in his _duffle_ bag. "Seriously, stop touching my van."

"But—"

"Jan!" a blond boy, probably the same age, trotted up, looking as exasperated as a single mother. "Jan—why are you touching a grown man's van?" And, much to Kanda's disgust, his voice had the makings of an Englishman. Why are these people even in _America_? Don't they hold a grudge or some shit like that?

"Leo, you have to _look_ at this, man!" Jan insisted, skating back to wave exuberantly at the van. "Is that not the most _triumphant_ thing you've ever seen?!"

"Err," Leo squinted at the décor, furrowing his light eyebrows. "Oh, wow." He looked at Kanda with curiosity. "You're, uh, French?"

"No." Kanda needed a bud for this shit. "_D__ō__mo arigat__ō_, Mister Roboto."

"So, you're Japanese?" Leo blinked, smiling. "Your English is spectacular for a man…or woman…" He stared at the Japanese man's chest. "Well, for someone who is not native to the language."

"_Bitch_—" It was official: Kanda hated the British.

"Oh, Kanda!" Speaking of the race to hate, his own personal English brat walked towards him, arms laden with various foods from the shop within the gas station. "Are you hungry? I got you a bag of chips. They were on sale—two for a _dollar_! Bugger all if I didn't buy it!" He beamed, and Kanda almost winced at the brightness.

Leo's eyes lit up. "Blinding!" he exclaimed. "I _love_ bargains! C'mon, Jan!" He tugged at his friend's hand, who had no choice to follow due to his skates.

Jan looked devastated. "And leave the trippendicular van?" he whined.

"Hey yes, you _want_ to go bargains shopping in a gas station so you can get the fuck away from my van!" Kanda snapped, jerking the gas pump out of the tank. "_Go away_."

"Dude, you might want to get that attitude adjusted," Jan commented with a grin, pivoting with skill on his heel and skating towards his light-haired friend.

The guitarist scowled. "I'll adjust _your_ attitude!" he grumbled spitefully, capping the tank and slamming the cover closed. He turned to the white-haired punk, who was eating a donut very slowly while watching him. "What's _your_ problem?"

"You don't like kids, do you?"

"And people thought you were _smart_." Kanda snorted, stomping over to the back of the van. He swung open the doors with force, glaring at the lounging redhead, who sat there reading a book like that was an interesting past time. "Cyclops—time to drive."

"Aww, but—"

"I swear to God that if you don't get up off your lazy ass and get behind that fucking wheel before Lenalee comes out of the shop—I have two fists and I haven't worked out in two days." He was beginning to feel _anti_ in-shape—the moment they got to Fucks Knows, Georgia, he'll have to spend three hours just _exercising_. "Lazy Jewish bastard."

"Stop _calling_ me that!" One-Eyed Wanker whined, and his actual Jew name slipped Kanda's mind. "Fuck, _fine_—I'll drive."

"The way you pretend you have a choice is hilarious." The Japanese man grabbed at his duffle bag, unzipping it with intensity. "Gotta find it, gotta find it—found it!" He tenderly held a joint and he thanked god for Jamaicans. Or who_ever_ invented this shit.

Cyclops gave the joint a sad look. "Are you goin' to share?" he asked, even though everyone and their mom knew the answer just by the look Kanda spared for him. "_Ugh_."

"You can't drive while under any influence, jackass," Kanda pointed out, smirking as the redhead kicked at rocks in disappointment. He patted down his ripped jean pockets, frowning. "Wait, shit, do you have a light?"

"Not for _you_, Yuu," and the hoser of a drummer grumbled underneath his breath until he reached the driver's side of the front seat.

Kanda rolled his eyes. This is why he didn't associate with those pansexual freaks. "Hey, brat, do you have a light?" he asked just for the sake of asking—one could never know.

The kid glanced at him, the joint in his hand, and back at him. "And I thought _you_ were smart, just not really," he grumbled, maneuvering his pile of food towards the back of the van, where he put it down with gentle care. He dusted off his hands and reached into one of his back pocket. "Now, say _aahhh_."

"What?"

"Good enough." He flicked the lighter up and held it to the end of the joint, smiling. "If I smell like a Rastafarian church by the end of this—there will be problems."

"Sure, whatever." Kanda stuck the joint in between his lips, watching the brat climb into the back of the van. He looked to the side of the van, wisps of smoke escaping his lips. "Lenalee!"

The girl looked up with a start, and Kanda waved once. "We're about to _leave_," he said sternly. "Your brother will try and kill me _more_ if you end up in North Carolina alone."

Lenalee relented after that, walking towards him with a sad expression. "Can we pretend that North Carolina is South for the day?" she asked.

"No. Get in the car before I forget that I don't hit girls," Kanda replied, although he was kidding. Clearly, he was not made for jokes, because she could smack a guy for the countdown. "_Ow_." He rubbed his cheek, scowling.

"Oh, suck it up." She sniffed, climbing into the passenger seat of the vehicle. "Oh, shi—Lavi, you _scared_ me. Wait, _you_'re driving? Oh, this is just unfair."

Kanda ignored her complaints, choosing to get in the back of the van. Once the doors were shut securely, he removed the joint from his mouth. "Let's get going, Cyclops," he said.

"Yeah, _yeah_." Cyclops—what the _hell_ was his name?—grumbled, snapping in his seatbelt. He coughed into his fist. "Welcome to Air Awesome. I'm Captain Lavi, and I'll be your pilot for today." He grinned, holding up his fingers in the shaka gesture. "We are now on a course to Lithonia, Georgia—please buckle in your seatbelts and stay seated for the ride." He glanced at the two in the back of the van, with a lack of real seats and seatbelts. "And if you don't have seatbelts, then that's just too damn bad."

The brat sighed, and he finished swallowing what looked like the mangled remnants of a honey bun. "I will never go on another road trip again in my life," he said, brushing off his lap.

Kanda blew smoke in his direction. "You have a complaint for everything, don't you?" he asked, irritated.

"…Well, _yes_, to be honest."

The van began to move, and the brat—he probably had a real name, too—immediately looked sick.

"If Kanda drives like a man from the Far East," he grumbled. "And Lenalee drives…well, she _can't_ drive…then I'd hate to see how Lavi manages on the open road."

Cyclops laughed, turning the wheel. "I'd hate to see it too," he said, and the van made the smoothest turn Kanda ever felt into the main road. "It'll be a bumpy ride, babe."

"Why am I not plastered to the wall?" the brat asked, looking over at his gay boyfriend. "Could it be that you might be the best driver in the _van_?"

"I don't like to brag," Yes he did. Kanda is usually on the receiving end of listening to most of the redhead's conquistador stories. "But, I did pass my driver's test with a ninety-nine."

"…" The British brat stared at him. "Why don't you have your license, then?"

"Because." The one-eyed drummer shifted gears as they turned onto the highway. "Those are for _geeks_. I'm just a fucking genius."

* * *

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, WAYSIE. HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY.

(I know, I'm late by a day. But, I was distracted because I _needed_ to read Kizuna: Bonds of Love. I regret nothing!)

First, I'd like to state a correction: Emiggax has not lost her _interest_ in the story—she has lost her _Internet_. It came back for a moment, but it's gone again. She says thanks anyway. Oh, and the song on the radio is _Tempted_ by Squeeze.

Secondly, we want to give a shout-out to everybody. That's right—the sheer number of people who have taken the time to review this fanfic and make it to where it is today is way too much to count. And, I don't like to play favorites, especially at a time like this. Emiggax just can't remember your names—unless you've taken the time to acknowledge her existence. Then, she will probably never forget you.

Anyway. Shout out: Thank you, thank you, and thank you—this makes us really, really happy. From the disgustingness of chapter one to the non-sequential chapter thirty-two, it's been a really fun ride so far. Sure, a few people have made it known that they don't like this story or they don't like they way I write, but most people have been extremely positive. I mean, sure, I personally never thought this fanfic would even reach three-hundred reviews, while Emi was all "The idea is so awesome it'll top a K in no time" and, uh, she was right. Again. Fuck, why can't _I_ ever win against her? D: Anyway, your support makes me sit in bed for hours at a time, just writing this story. :) We love all of you—yes, even the people who hate the way I write. :D It can't be that bad, since you are still reading.

Lastly, I'd like to make sure everyone knows one thing: This is not a musical story. This is not about bands and the music industry. This is about the days of four friends who met (and, in some cases, feel gay for) in a crazy time period due to a common interest. It happens to everybody. :D Well, except for the go gay part. I mean, if you _have_ gone gay for a friend, then that's totally cool—oh god, I suck at this.

Here's to hoping to stick with us until the nearing end! :D

Thanks again for being with us for this year…and one day.

(remember: weed=cake if you can't handle it)


	33. Fantastic Voyage

_THIRTY-THREE_

Lenalee was planning the coup d'état of the _century_—in Kanda's magically radical van, that is.

As a woman, she was already awesome and powered by righteous outrage for various completely reasonable reasons. Yet, as a highly attractive and admittedly smart diva with better fashion sense than all of China, she should've had her beloved 'older brother' figure by the metaphorical balls.

The girl glanced into the rearview mirror to observe his lazy lounge on top of the luggage in general, reading what _looked_ like a harlequin novel and chewing gum as obnoxiously as ever. Allen, on the other hand, was fiddling with a Sony walkman on his pillow. Their legs touched at the knees ever-so-slightly.

Lenalee smiled with a devious quirk. For the record, she always suspected Kanda was gay—like, ever since that fateful day they met in her freshman year. Of course, that was a completely different story.

"Hey, Lavi," she started with a smile. "Can I pop you a question?"

Lavi didn't spare her a glance, instead staring ahead at the never ending expanse of road. "You could," he replied, shrugging. "As long as it doesn't hurt. Kidding!" He batted away her hand lightly, snickering. "Okay, okay, Lenalady. What's cracking?"

She tittered a bit with her fingers, trying to find a reasonable way to word her question. "Do you think I'm hot?" So sue her for being blunt—it's a valid question, right?

"Hot?" Lavi blinked the only eye he had, lips pursed into a small frown. "Uh. _Uh_. Um, well, uh." He narrowed his eye, suspicious. "Wait, are you trying to test out some freaky-deak psychic PMS shit with your brother using my answer?"

Damn Komui once more for interceding with her boy-experiences! "Dude, _no_," Lenalee insisted, crossing her tight-clad legs. "I just need an honest answer—this has _nada_ to do with my brother."

"_Nein_?" the redhead affirmed, moving a hand off the steering wheel to tap at his chin. "Then, that's a different story." He snorted. "Of _course_ you're hot, like _duh_."

"But—"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_," Lavi clicked his tongue in disdain, frowning. "I am _not_ going farther than that—I don't trust you _or_ your freaky brother."

Lenalee was admittedly disappointed. "Eh," she shrugged. "I'll take what I can get." The girl sighed. "Okay, well, since obviously you have fantastic taste—what makes you want to bang Allen?"

The van swerved a little, the reason probably being how Lavi just about snapped his neck to really _look_ at his female friend.

"Why are you asking these kinds of questions?" he demanded as calmly as he could without really _freaking out_. He twitched his lips into the semblance of a smile, and Lenalee had to frown. He looked creepy as hell when he wasn't naturally smiling.

The young woman coughed lowly in her throat. "Well," she replied with equal calm. "I need to get the 411 on gay men—I know, I _know_. You're pansexual or whatever." Which was a load of—and excuse her uncouth language—_bullshit_, because gay men are just _gay men_. If he likes Krory's girlfriend and Allen's backside, then he just needs to choose one instead of making up a lifestyle. "Anyway! I want to get Kanda to see my side of the dealio, so I need to understand him better. If it all goes smoothly, then I can _probably_ or _maybe_ get Kanda to let me drive for twenty minutes instead."

Lavi rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful. "You _do_ know that Yuu and I are completely different people, yeah?" he asked with a grin.

"Well, _duh_. You've got a peni—oh, right, _Kanda_." Lenalee decided that this was the proper time to look bashful. "Kanda. Wow, I really kind of hate his first name, you know?"

"You are _juiced_, my good lady," the redhead replied with a sniff. "There is nothing as fucking _beautiful_ as having a pronoun for a name. I wish my name was, like, _Me_ or something. We could be fuckin' awesome, Yuu and Me!"

"You sound like a retard when you talk about this kind of stuff," the Chinese girl said seriously. "Like, okay, we've driven off topic. So! Even though _you_ like girls and Kanda likes, uh. Life? No," she waved her hands to negate her statement. "He likes his guitar. Regardless of that, what makes Allen attractive to you?" Lenalee smiled sweetly—it was all a part of her coup d'état. She just wasn't sure _how_.

Lavi cocked an eyebrow. "Well, since you're askin' _me_," he said, humming. He leaned in a little closer than usual, keeping his eye on the highway. "You have to fucking _promise_ though, promise that you won't tell a soul."

Lenalee ran a finger across her chest, grinning. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she assured him. She didn't mean the 'die' part, though.

The older teenager nodded, pleased. "Well then," he started, tapping an index finger against the steering wheel. "I'll tell ya." His voice lowered into a whisper, and his eye sparkled deviously. "I love his eyes."

"His eyes?" Lenalee repeated, cocking an eyebrow.

"His _eyes_." Lavi insisted, smiling. "Oh, yeah, his accent is an ultra-orgasm, and he's got the figure of those glam rock stars who are, like, _anorexic_, but sexy at the same time. But, his eyes are just…_just_."

"…Okay." The girl furrowed her eyebrows, obviously perplexed. "This isn't related to how he has two eyes and you have—"

"I will crash this goddamn van if you even finish that thought," Lavi said with a wide smile. "And I will crash at the border between North Carolina and _South_ Carolina. Now, if you _really_ want that…"

Lenalee actually didn't want that at all, to be honest. "Chill out, Yid," she chided. "It's just a statement, you know?"

"Yeah, _yeah_." Lavi sniffed, unimpressed. Apparently he didn't like those 'one-eye' jokes as much as someone would expect—then again, a hypocrite is what a hypocrite does. "So, what's up with the whacky SAT? All the crazy questions you're suddenly asking me, it's kinda weird."

"I want to mutinate Kanda," the Chinese girl explained, fully aware that 'mutinate' was probably not even a word. She rolled her eyes at Lavi's raised eyebrow, elaborating further. "You know, that thing that pirates do to their captains when the caps' get bogus and junk. Where they find some totally _radical_ island and then dump Cap'n Jerkface on the beach. Then they sail away with their booty or _whatever_ pirates do."

In all actuality, the plan was awesome. Lenalee knew it could be pulled off with only minor difficulties.

Yet, just leave it to Lavi to punch a freaking _hole_ in her dreams.

Immediately, he laughed uproariously, like she just told the best black joke _ever_ with a straight face. "Oh _man_," he breathed, trying to tone down the size of his smile. "You are hilarious, Missus Lee. Comedy, it's _so_ your future career." He sobered up a little, straightening his posture. "Okay, you want to know the _first_ thing wrong with your dope plan? You are _not_ a pirate."

Lenalee frowned. "Well, che'_duh_," she scoffed. "Of course I'm not a pirate."

"Next!" Lavi continued with a snicker. "My secret lover-in-denial, Yuu, is not a pirate captain. He is—and, this may rock your socks—a _grown man_ with a job, an apartment, and a glock in the glove compartment. There are several things that even _I_ wouldn't do—mutiny just so happens to be on that list!"

He was having way too much fun with this, Lenalee concluded.

But, she _did_ eye the glove compartment a little suspiciously.

"And!" The One-Eyed Jewish Wonder wasn't even done, the jackass. "Lastly, you're just juiced. That plan wouldn't work even if you had a calendar that went all the way into a million years from now."

"You don't know that!" the Chinese girl retorted, affronted.

Lavi winked—and Lenalee really did sympathize with Allen in their phone conversations with his complaints on telling a _wink_ from a _blink_ with the drummer—and steered the van onto a long-winded exit. "_Act_ually," he started. Coughing into a fist, he glanced at the rearview mirror. "Yuu Old Boy! Might I drop a question on you?"

Kanda didn't glance at the redhead, yet Allen perked up in interest. "Yea'_no_," the Japanese man replied rather calmly. "Don't talk to me." He turned the page in his book for emphasis.

"If I were'ta pull a trippy attempt of some shit like _mutiny_, what'll happen?"

It was a valid question. "_After_ I beat the living _life_ out of you?" Kanda replied, looking up with an interested expression. "_Hmm_." He raked his fingers through his dark hair, frowning. "I'll probably throw your bloodied carcass to the side of the road after castrating you with my bare hands, leaving you to the vulcans and the pickaninnies."

"Wait, _what_?" Allen demanded, shaking his head in befuddlement. He cocked an eyebrow. "Did you mean _vultures_?"

"What the hell're you talking about, British bitch?"

"You said you were going to leave his bloodied carcass to the Vulcans," the white-haired teenager explained with a smirk. "Now, there's a slight chance in hell I'm a bit daft, but _surely_ Leonard Nimoy wouldn't be in the American South just to pick at the cadaver of a Jew."

Kanda rolled his eyes, _passionately_. "This is why you and your _faggot_ country lost the American Revolution. Because you are gay."

"Oh, you want to talk about losing a war? Because we can _always_ have a heated discussion about Japan in the the Second World War—"

"Waitaminute, _wait-a-minute_!" Lavi exclaimed, slamming his foot on the brakes in the middle of the highway. "Did, did Yuu seriously say _pickaninnies_?"

Kanda was unperturbed. "And?"

"Holy fucking _Christ_—"

"Don't call him out like you know him!" Allen interjected in a rather bitchy tone. Lavi loved messing with Christians, sometimes. "Hmph!"

"—okay, _fine_. Holy fucking Jewish-Dude-Who-Is-_Not-_The-Messiah, you can't just say pickaninny!" the one-eyed drummer insisted, gesticulating wildly with his hands. "On a scale of one to ten, that is a _negative integer_ in fucking _un_awesome, dude!"

Lenalee blinked. "Oh, for real?" she asked curiously. "Why?"

"Am I _cereally_ stuck in a car full of naïve, over-privileged Asians and a European?"

"Whoa," Allen huffed, holding up his gloved hands in a sign of exclusion. "I know bloody well what…_that word_ means. My uncle once initiated a fight with a rather, err, _large_ African-American man by drunkenly making a comment somewhere along the lines of…uh, 'go back to your Aunt Jemima and her pickaninnies, Tom' and believe me when I say that my uncle almost died that day."

Lavi wanted to shed a tear for that awesome, _awesome_ man. "Like, for _real_, guys," he said with a frown. "Pickaninnies is, like, the racist white people way of calling out little black kids." He rubbed his chin. "It's kind of like calling Yuu a Nip, calling Miss Lee a chink, and, uh, well." He paused. "What the fuck do we call the British as an insult?"

"Scottish?" Kanda offered.

"No."

"Irish?"

"Uh, no."

"_Canadian_?"

"Dude. _No_." Lavi waved a hand in dismissal, stepping on the gas again. "Well, the point is, don't say that, or you'll die."

"Whatever," the Japanese man snorted, thumbing to the next page. "They can do whatever they want—I don't feel like changing my vocabulary."

"Why is that word even _in_ your whack vocab?" Lavi demanded slowly. "I mean, _really_."

Before Kanda could take the time to even _consider_ replying, Lenalee shot her hands in the air and cheered like there was a winning football game on the highway. She latched onto Lavi's bicep with her long fingers and thankfully blunt nails, smiling so hard that there wasn't an analogy in the world to compare it to.

"Look ahead, Red," she said jovially. "It's almost that time of the day!"

The green-eyed teenager gulped, focusing on the road ahead. There was a sign, like, _a billion_—okay, maybe three—miles away, and Lavi was a genius, so it was easy to guess what Lenalee was seeing here.

"I know I'm going to get hurt for saying this," he started after clearing his throat. "But, I kind of maybe almost not really but somewhat wished you were talking 'bout your…period." That word was seriously disgusting when used in that context.

Lenalee stared at her older friend.

And then she slapped him.

"Are you calling me a bitch?" she scolded, ignoring his offended yelp. "I can't tell, because suddenly you're talking about my period and shit, so now I'm beginning to think you and I aren't that cool anymore. Are we?"

"Whoa, is your vagina okay—_ow_!" Lavi sucked in a pained breath as he rubbed at his red cheek. "Jesus Christ, Lenalady! When'd you ever slap that hard?" He moved his jaw in circular motions, trying to ease the pain. "I mean _yeesh_."

Lenalee winked, pinching his injured cheek. "When I started taking kick-boxing lessons seven years ago," she replied easily.

"Ah." Lavi nodded. Kick-boxing, it seemed pretty ace in theory. Of course, he still didn't understand how she learned to slap the stubble off his face, but _whatever_. He stared ahead at the road, squinting his eye when the sun pulled some shit like _reflecting_ off the metal.

And then, a sign happily welcomed them into South Carolina.

Lenalee bit her bottom lip in glee, turning around in her seat to open her mouth.

"Goddamn it Lenalee," Kanda snapped, looking up with annoyed eyes. "Fine—you can drive your stupid fifteen minutes!" He pointed his book at the girl threateningly. "I'll be counting, Joanie."

"Not a problem, Diesel!" she replied happily. The young woman poked at Lavi's bicep, smiling harder. "Come on, stop the van! It's _my_ turn to drive!"

"Oh good, because I've been waitin' for this all day," Lavi replied with a very wide grin. "It's great that I left my will and my cat with Granddad—I'm probably not gonna survive this."

"Oh, quit being a geek," Lenalee scoffed in amusement. "This'll be the _best_ part of the entire trip, I swear!"

----

Allen wasn't actually sure when he went to sleep.

But, really, his wake-up call? There was quite a bit of room for improvement.

"—the _fuck_ Lenalee?!" and that was the shrill sound of Kanda's 'angrier-than-normal' voice. "How the hell did we end up here when you only drove for, like, _twenty_ minutes?"

He opened his eyes slowly, sluggishly registering his odd position over half the luggage and how his pillow was currently somewhere near where Kanda _was_ sitting. Which meant that he had been snoozing on Mugen's guitar case instead of something soft, and that the guitarist was probably living it up while chilling—he did not like how _American_ his slang was getting—on his pillow.

_That arse_, he thought with only a little spite and a lot of endearment. The British boy sat up carefully, touching the small of his back for any undeserved aches.

"Don't yell, Kanda," Lenalee replied calmly. Allen patted down his messy hair, wondering what all the yelling and Kanda-like screaming was for. "It was kinda your fault too."

"_Kinda_ my fault?" Kanda demanded, and Allen could only imagine he crossed his arms at this point. "You must be mad _whacked_ today—fuck, I let you have twenty minutes and you cost me, like, _two hundred miles_ worth of gas! Does that sound like a mistake I would make, Lenalee?"

Allen nodded, tapping at the window. "It does!" he said loudly. Grinning, he pointed a gloved hand down at the door's handle. "By the way, would you mind letting me out? I'm a bit stuffed in here, you must understand."

Kanda stared at him, probably wondering what the bloody hell he was mumbling about. Lenalee actually took the initiative and opened the back of the van, smiling sheepishly.

"Sorry 'bout that," she apologized bashfully. "We didn't mean to let you bake in the metal oven called Kanda's Van."

"Of which you will _never_ touch the steering wheel again, you directionally-challenged space cadet! Get your head out of the clouds once in a while, lady!"

Allen waved his hand in dismissal, grinning. "Not a problem," he replied, actively ignoring Kanda as per usual. He quirked an eyebrow in question. "Although, I do wonder why it feels like we are _not_ where we should be. Kanda makes a blinding little girl that is angry, from what I heard."

"Fuck you, kid. Just. _Ugh_."

Lenalee snickered a little nervously, eyes darting around the semi-empty parking lot of what looked like a gas station that they were currently parked in. "So, I was driving, right?" she began, and Allen _knew_ that he wasn't going to be impressed by the end of this story. "Right, I was just rollin' down the highway. So, like, Lavi was the navigator, and he was _ace_ at that, by the way."

"Get to the point," Kanda snapped. "Tell your fag of a boytoy what happened, _Lenalee_."

"Okay, _Kanda_." The Chinese girl sniffed, affronted. "Anyway! So, here I was, just driving at a totally reasonable speed—"

"If by _reasonable_ you mean a hundred on the gas. By the way, that shit wasn't very _reasonable_ at all, lady."

"—shut up, burn-out. Let me tell the story, okay? Well, I was going a little over the speed limit, but whatev'. The faster to the Battle, the better—_right_?"

Allen crossed his arms. "Keep on with the story, Lenalee," he said flatly.

Lenalee coughed into her fist. "So, like, I'm driving and stuff, and Kanda get's all," And this is the part where Allen really believed that she could make a great actor. "'Hey! It's time to stop driving, Lenalee!' And I was like, oh, okay, because why would I put up a fight?"

"Because you were _high_ or some shit like that!" Kanda retorted, scowling. "You tried to scratch my arms out, Lenalee!"

"Accident, Kanda. _Accident._ Geez, guitarists are always _so_ touchy about little things, am I right?"

"_Keep on_ with the story you wanted to tell so badly, Lenalee." The British teenager replied as he became steadily more unimpressed with every passing second. "I'm just _dying_ to know why it feels like we're _not_ in Georgia despite the fact that a little more than seven hours have passed on the open bloody road."

She was clearly nervous, and she played with the rainbow of bangles on her wrists for distraction. "Uhm," she hummed in thought. "I—err—"

"Fuck it," Kanda cursed, raking his fingers through his loosely strewn hair. Allen guessed that his hair band snapped with his temper. "Let _me_ tell the story. Thanks to our very special, totally _radical_ singer—which, like, might be the _only_ thing she is choice at—we took a wrong turn at fucking Albuquerque and now we're in Tennessee."

Allen blinked.

He blinked again, although a little slower than his first try.

"We took a wrong turn in _New Mexico_?" he asked, his voice borderline shrill. "Dear _Lord_ Lenalee is never allowed to drive again. Again!"

The Japanese man stared at him. "We are, like, two-fucking-thousand miles from New Mexico, loser," he replied calmly. "The I-65 doesn't even touch _Texas_, let alone Latino Land." He frowned, a hand on his hip in question. "Kid, if you're gonna _be_ in America, you've gotta _be_ an American—taking a wrong turn in Albuquerque is, like, a saying."

"…" Allen vaguely remembered certain Jews telling him the same thing. "I knew that."

"Right." Kanda sighed heavily, shifting his weight to his right as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Cyclops is getting directions or some shit like that, so we'll be back to the road. _Wherever_. At some point." He threw more dirty looks at Lenalee, who replied with exceedingly mature flashes of her tongue.

Allen nodded, hopping out the back of the van and stretching his muscles. "Right," he said, smiling. "I'll be back in a moment, then." His stomach gurgled rather violently, and his smile grew. "I'm a tad hungry."

"I can tell," Lenalee deadpanned.

The white-haired teenager laughed, walking around the side of the van towards the building some ways away.

"—_You don't give me love_," a car's stereo crooned from a distance, and Allen turned around, trying to identify the sound.

"_You give me pale shelter_," a town car pulled into the parking lot from the other side, steadily heading in his direction as he came to a standstill. Allen cocked an eyebrow—that music was really quite familiar, if he did say so himself. "_You don't give me love—you give me cold hands…_"

"Looking for someone?"

Allen snapped out of his thoughts with a jump. "Oh!" he exclaimed, turning towards the Lincoln town car that was braked in front of him. The backseat's tinted window was rolled down, and a lightly bearded man in the single most ridiculous top hat the teenager had even seen grinned at him, waving a gloved hand in greeting.

"Are you okay, boy?" the silly-looking stranger asked with a wide grin, which kind of made Allen feel uncomfortable.

"Err, uh," the British boy mumbled, finding his usual eloquence at a loss for the moment. "Well, I'd suppose so…"

The man chuckled deeply, tipping the rim of his top hat over his eyes with a thumb. "It's a little odd to see a van in an empty gas station parking lot with some teens hanging around it," he replied, obviously amused. "I just thought that I could lend a hand before arriving to Lithonia, Georgia. You know, rack up some good points."

Allen paused. "Lithonia?" he repeated. "Are you, by any chance, on your way to the Battle of the Bands?"

"Why, yes I am, dear boy!" the man said jovially, smiling wider—if that were even physically possible. Allen felt his own tentative twitch of the lips dim at the sight of this man's abnormally wide grin. It did not help that his teeth had this bad habit of temporarily blinding the fifteen-year-old for seconds at a time when the sun reflected the right way. "Why, don't tell me that you're also on the road there?"

"Yes, we are, actually," Allen replied with a small smile. "We just, uh, took a wrong turn at Albuquerque—not sure what that means, by the way—and ended up here on accident."

The man cocked an eyebrow in question, his smile as large as ever. "From where, exactly?" he asked casually.

"Well, we came from Hampton, Virginia, actually—"

"_Hampton_?" he asked, leaning out the window a little closer. Allen had half a mind to take a step back, glare, and pose like a Kung-Fu star. "What's your band's name, boy?"

"Oh, uh, well." This, this was quite possibly the most awkwardly innocent conversation he's had since he moved to America with Cross. "We call ourselves the _Black Order_."

"Then you must be Allen Walker."

Allen froze, eyes wide. "How exactly do you know that, sir?" he asked cautiously. "I mean no disrespect, but, _really_."

The man laughed, delighted. "Let me introduce myself," he responded, holding out his white gloved hand. "I'm the Millennium Earl—CEO of Level Records. You can simply call me The Earl." He smiled wider. "I've been keeping tabs on you, Mr. Walker."

"On _me_?" This was really weird—and steadily getting odder. "That's, err, that's. Wonderful."

"It very well should be," The Earl replied with ease. "I don't take an interest in just _any_one, Mr. Walker. The last person I kept an eye on ended up being a smash hit in the 1975—you very well might know him, Mr. Walker." He chuckled. "I can only assume that it runs in the family."

"Excuse me—"

"Brit!" and thank the Good Lord for Lavi and his everlasting distractions. "Oh, Al, uh, God, how do I say this?" The redhead trotted up, scratching underneath his headband bashfully. "They don't have directions in there."

Allen turned to look at him, trying to ignore the way The Earl's eyes followed his movements with more interest than necessary. "Why?" he demanded. "I mean, why could you not get directions?"

"Hmm?" Lavi rubbed his chin, frowning. "Man, that guy barely spoke English. I was all, 'hey, I need to get to Lithonia,' and he was like, 'you want money on pump number six?' and I was like, dude, '_no_, I need to get to Lithonia, A S A P,' and he was all 'oh, yes, I see. No, we do not have map here,' and I was getting kinda pissed so I walked out." He shrugged. "Guess we'll have to play it by ear."

The Earl raised his hand, grinning as the teenagers turned to look at him. "Well, since we _are_ going to the same place—might I suggest that you follow me?" he suggested, overly pleased with the series of events. "You probably don't have anything to lose, right?"

Lavi stared at the man, clearly suspicious. "Probably," he demurely replied. "By the way, who _are_ you?"

"The Earl," the odd man answered. "I'm trustworthy—I would be getting _nothing_ out of leading four teenagers to their demises. Do not worry, boy."

"Uh _huh_." The redhead's eyebrow looked like it was stuck in its raised position—for which Allen couldn't _possibly_ blame it. "Let me, uh, let me go talk to Yuu and Lenalee. We'll get back to you on that dealio, sir." He walked past Allen, brushing shoulders as a way of warning him to follow.

The Earl watched the drummer's departing back, and he turned back to the white-haired boy. "And, _you_, Mr. Walker," he began. "Would you like to ride with me to Lithonia? We can converse over a glass of Port."

"_No!_" Allen yelped, and then flushed in embarrassment. He said that with _way_ too much obvious panic. "I mean, no, sir." He smiled. "I believe that I'll be just fine in the van. Surely we can talk another day?" And by 'another day,' he meant 'never.'

"But of course!" And then the Earl pulled some _shite_ where a card just about appeared between his index and middle fingers. He held it out to the boy. "I'll keep in contact, Mr. Walker."

"…" Allen took the card carefully, not even caring to glance at it. "Thank you, sir."

"Not a problem. Now," the odd man tipped his hat. "Follow me, _Black Order_, to the competition of your lives."

----

The first thing Kanda cared to notice as he drove behind that flashy limo into a large expanse of land was that there was a fuckload of human beings here.

The second thing was that there were _really_ a lot of people here.

"That's, uh," the one-eyed freak of a drummer coughed within his throat. "That's a lot of people, guys. Just, _wow_."

Lenalee furrowed her eyebrows in thought. "Geez Louise," she whistled. "When they said America, they meant _America_. It's like a whole cities' worth of people, fer sure!"

The English brat was not very impressed. "There are no parking spaces remaining," he complained like the bitch he was. "Where in the world are we going to sit this bloody van, huh?"

"I like the way you're bitching about parking when you don't even know how to drive," Kanda replied, as acerbic as ever. He didn't actually _like_ performing in front of people—it was just something he had to do. This didn't mean that he was afraid of crowds, per se, but he just didn't enjoy being around a landfill of people at one time.

He could tell that he was not going to be pleased by the end of this event.

The Lincoln town car—he didn't know who the hell this 'The Earl' was, but Cyclops made him seem like the creepiest thing since the brat's smile on a Friday—maneuvered through the parking lot like this was a common thing for it, and Kanda followed just for the hell of doing that. Ahead of them, a gate was rolled open at the mere sight of the limousine.

"It looks like they're going through some secret entrance gate stuff," Lenalee commented with an air of intrigue. "Just like James Bond."

"That guy's a faggot," Kanda retorted. "He sucks _dick_, man. I hate watching his movies, like for real."

"He hates watching yours too," because he forgot that Lenalee was a '007' fan. Like every other teenager in the fucking world. "God, you're such a downer, dork."

Kanda rolled his eyes. "Sure, okay." The Chevrolet van slowly rolled through the gate after the dark limo in front of them, and he braked the vehicle behind the admittedly much nicer car. "Shit, this patch of grass is kinda flashy, if I've gotta say," he grumbled, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Lenalee followed suit, excitement trembling through her arms. "I know, right?" she said with a little _too_ much happiness. "This 'Earl' guy must be R.V.S.P., or something swanky like that."

"Oh bloody _hell_…" Kanda looked around at the sound of the brat's voice, whom of which had that expression on his face like he knew he forgot some _very_ crucial information. "Well," he spoke up, brushing his white bangs out the way of his eyes like a homosexual. "He's the CEO of, err, Level Records?"

The DJ called Easygoing Atmosphere screeched to a scratchy halt, and Kanda brought his hand to his temple in case of emergency.

"He's _what_?" the Chinese singer demanded, borderline shrill. "He's the CEO of _who_?"

"Wow," Cyclops said flatly. "Then again, I'm not _that_ surprised—Al runs into the most excellent people all the time. Bak Chan?"

"That guy kind of reminded me of a weirdo," Lenalee grumbled, arms crossed. "He did some _odd_ stuff, man."

Kanda opened the driver's side door a little rougher than usual—this was probably because he was a little more irritated than usual. But, a ten hour car ride with mishaps thrown around every which way can probably do that to even a saint. "Everyone, get out of the fucking car," he snapped huffily. "We need to get this over with—I need to take a leak, and my hair is getting tangled from this stress."

Lenalee stepped out the passenger side, muttering underneath her breath like that was going to change something. The Japanese man rolled his eyes as he jerked open the back of the van, mostly because it _wasn't_ going to change. The CEO of a record company? Big deal—if he really wanted to play the guitar for money, he'd stand on the streets of Manhattan or something.

Kanda shut the doors, turning around to bitch at the rest of the band. There were a few other people milling about, doing shit that was probably not productive. "A-A-_Allen_!" and then something was _touching_ him.

"…" He looked down at the young girl that was currently latched to his midsection, and he really did not enjoy being touched by most people. "Who the fuck is this brat?" he demanded. "I don't know if I should be pissed that she's touching me or that she thinks I'm British."

The girl froze, looking up. "Oh, _God_," she grimaced, letting go of him slowly. "Just. _Eww_. I knew there was something suspicious about you. You're too tall, too thick, _and_ a Japanese guitarist. _Ick_."

"I will _cut_ you—"

"Rhode," a painfully familiar voice chided gently. "He _obviously_ doesn't like to be called out on that."

"Tyki Mikk?" the brat said immediately, eyes wide as though he hadn't seen his gay Puerto Rican boyfriend in years. "Why, I haven't seen you in quite some time!"

Mikk smiled at him, and Kanda felt his skin crawl. "Well, you know," he replied, stepping closer to the _right_ British punk. "After all of…_that_ and whatever," he snuck at look at Kanda himself, frowning. "I just had to, you know, give us some time apart. Your pitbull of a guitarist would've _probably_ been madder than usual if I kept sending you flowers even though I…I messed up."

Kanda sniffed. "Whatever you and the punk do isn't my business—"

"Hmm?" Mikk grinned, wrapping an arm around the brat's shoulders. The white-haired punk rolled his eyes and checked his more-than-likely-to-be-broken watch. "Even this?" He leaned in close, obviously for a kiss or the spreading of mononucleosis.

"—as long as it isn't PDA," the guitarist finished, holding out an arm and gripping the older man's shoulder. He held tighter, eyes narrowed. "I'm not the biggest fan of PDA."

"I could tell," Mikk replied, amused. He took his filthy wetback arm from around the brat, tucking his hands in his jean pockets. "Calm down, Fido. I'm not going to do anything."

_In front of you_, hung in the air ominously. Kanda sneered, loosening his grip.

"Whatever," he grunted, bringing his arm back to his side.

The back of the limo opened with an overdramatic creak, catching the attention of the two bands and their members.

"Oh _God_," Mikk groaned, rolling his eyes. "Now he wants to join in too."

"The hell—" Cyclops started, and Kanda was pretty close to finishing it for him. It just didn't feel like the situation called for it.

----

The Millennium Earl was a chubby, round man of average height that wore a dark suit and still donned that ridiculous top hat.

This did not change the fact that he made Allen feel overly suspicious out this world.

"It must be great to be young," The Earl mused as he sauntered towards them, a cane tapping against the grassy ground. He probably didn't even need it, especially by how great his posture was and how his walk was without fault. "And, I must thank you, Mr. Kanda, for following me. I would've hated to've had to instruct you to."

Kanda nodded stiffly. "Sure," he replied gruffly.

"Now!" the man started, tapping the end of his cane on the ground, grinning. "It's come to my attention that my precious children lost a bet to you, the _Black Order_, correct?"

"Was it about football?" Lavi asked, sneaking a dirty look at his Japanese best friend.

"I'm not aware of the details, but I can only assume."

"Then, yes, we did destroy them in touch football." The redhead shrugged. "It was pretty awesome."

Skin was not amused. "I got _tackled_," he snapped, pointing at Allen like it was the worst thing he'd ever had happen to him. "By'a _runt_ who is, like, four foot _two_. I do believe there might've been some cheatin' about, because that just ain't natural."

David snorted. "Sounds like you'sa just don't want to admit you _suck_ at rugby, Skinny," he commented idly, observing his nails. "Right common of a Yank, right Jazzy?"

"Right-o," Jasdero agreed. Allen suspected that they agreed on just about _everything,_ from music to the color of their underwear. "'Sides, it cain't just be your fault—we're sure Tyki got a little out of it too when ol' Allen started runnin' in tight pants."

Tyki shrugged. "I plead the fifth," he replied blandly.

"Plead the fifth my _ass_," Kanda sniped, sniffing.

Allen snorted. "More like _my_ arse—"

The conversation was quick to escalate into a stupid argument, and The Earl looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. "Children!" he exclaimed, tapping his cane again. "Please, let me finish!" He began walking again, circling the two intermingling groups slowly. "As promised, you four will stay in a hotel of the high classed nature."

"The Motel Six?" Lavi asked, intrigued.

"I did say fancy."

"The Motel _Eight_?"

Lenalee smacked him upside the head. "_God_," she scolded. "Stop sounding so ignorant."

The Earl laughed delightedly. "This band is just _lovable_," he said to _Noah's Ark_, smiling. "It makes me feel a little bad, actually!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Kanda demanded.

"Nothing." The Earl snickered, waving the head of the cane about. "Now, would you like directions or should I simply lead you there?"

"Directi—"

"We'll be led," the guitarist interjected immediately, holding a hand over Lenalee's mouth, but not quite touching her skin. "It's, shit, it's been a long enough day."

----

"Dude, screw whatever I said before," Lavi whistled, impressed. "This has gotta be, like, the Motel Forty."

Allen quirked an eyebrow. "What that number?" he asked, even though he knew that the answer was probably going to be a horrible joke.

"Huh? Oh, because it's five times better than the Motel Eight." And Lavi _knew_ it was a bad joke, but he said it anyway. Wonderful.

The British boy grimaced. "I despise being right. Sometimes."

"You're British—you're, like, never wrong either way."

The Millennium Earl laughed in delight, dabbing at his eyes with a gloved finger. "You children keep that up," he said jovially. "It might happen so that I actually become fond of you."

Allen grimaced a little more. "That's uh, that's wonderful. Just, _blinding_."

The thick man just smiled—an extremely common occurance, Tyki told him with a sigh—and led them to the reception desk. "One room, two suites," he stated merrily. "With a connected bathroom, if possible."

The receptionist—an obviously muscular man with too much make-up for even a woman and a nametag that read '_Bonnaire_'—flipped through some pages in a thick book and hummed a popular Ska song.

"Found you one," he announced with a deep voice and a smile. Bonnaire looked over the group of teenagers in boredom, but then he froze at the sight of Kanda. "Seems like _I_ just hit the homerun of the century." His smile widened. "What's your name, Japanese Boy?"

To say that Kanda was disgusted would've been the understatement of the universe. "Not Interested," he replied, eyes wide in horror.

"Oh _c'mon_ now, Diesel!" Bonnaire scoffed, tapping a pen on a page in his book. "You _really_ ain't gonna give me your name or your number? Is that what you gonna do?"

"Oh _hell_ no."

It was only too clear that Lavi was struggling to specifically _not_ laugh. His eye watered and he held a hand over his mouth tightly as his body shook—Allen could not possibly blame him.

"As wonderful as young love is," The Earl interrupted, tapping his cane against the floor. "I'm loathe to say that there are more matters for me to attend to." He grinned widely. "So, if you would _please_?"

The four teenagers were extremely hesitant—but, none were as reluctant as Kanda. "Err…" he coughed into a fist. "_Shit_."

Lenalee shoved him forward, whistling as though she were innocent. "Oh, _darn_," she said with false shock. "My arms slipped. Muchos sorry, dude."

The guitarist probably could have destroyed her with his eyes alone, but he took a deep breath instead. "May…I…please…get…the…_key_?" he ground out, holding his hand out impatiently.

Bonnaire winked, his red lips stretching into a smirk. "With a body like that, you can have whatever you want," he replied slyly.

Allen metaphorically _exploded_ in laughter, his knees buckling in his loss of control. The fifteen-year-old grabbed at Lavi's arm in an attempt to keep upright, yet he really just caused the older male to release his long-held hilarity.

"I am…so glad…I came on this trip!" the British boy breathed between fits of laughter.

"Best. Road trip. _Ever_." Lavi agreed wholeheartedly.

Kanda looked ready to kill—hands out in _choking action_—but Bonnaire hummed in thought. "Your friend is a lil' cute too," he said with a grin.

Lavi choked on his amusement while Allen found it hard to breathe period. They both shared an expression of horror.

"Which friend?" Lenalee asked, a little scared herself. "He's got, like, three of those things."

Bonnaire cocked a thick eyebrow, holding out a small key. "Hmm? Oh, the one with the groovy tight pants. Cute."

"Oh _bloody hell_ my life is ruined," Allen groaned, rubbing his temples in exasperation.

Kanda snorted, snatching the offered key from the receptionist's waiting hand. "Your _existence_ is ruined," he grouched, pivoting around on his heel. Reaching out a calloused hand, the guitarist grabbed the back of Allen's neck and pulled his along. "Let's go, loser."

"Oh Dear _God_ you are touching me."

The Earl chuckled, rubbing his bearded chin. "Make an effort to contact me tomorrow—preferably before your first show!"

Lenalee waved him off. "Will do, Mr. Clutch!"

----

"So, _what_ have we learned today?" Lavi asked, sticking a lollipop in his mouth lazily.

Lenalee rolled her eyes. "Check the map before turning onto ace but _mysterious_ highways," she said blandly.

"Buy more track pants," Allen deadpanned, rubbing the back of his neck with a disturbed expression. "Also—Kanda's hands feel like some sort of _violation_. I feel _dirty_."

"Take a bath, hoser," Kanda replied haughtily.

Lavi nodded. "Now, that's all cool and choice, but I think my life lesson is, like, the _best_." He smiled at Kanda. "There's someone for _everyone_."

"That…that wasn't even cool." The Japanese man said, disgusted. "That freak had lipstick and a _beard_. You've gotta choose one, and even _I'm_ sorry to say that."

"Is it love?!"

"It's actually you getting your arse kicked if you don't stop yourself," Allen interjected, smiling at the suicidal redhead. "Please, spare us the bloodshed."

"But, _Al_—"

Lenalee coughed into a fist, leaning against the wall in their hotel room. "Guys, hey, quick question," she started, looking oddly nervous. "But. Uh. How are we gonna sleep?" She held up the key and pointed to the suite on the adjacent side to her. "One suite, one bed. Another suite, another bed. That's two suites and two beds."

"But _four teenagers_," Allen added, amazed. "I do say this might be a problem. It seems like some sharing might occur tonight."

Kanda sneered, crossing his arms. "No way," he declined. "I'm sleeping on that couch-shit-thing. Whatever it is—it's got a cushion, and I can sleep on it. Cyclops can have the bed, the fag."

"You have the _worst_ habit of calling out kettles." Lavi commented, rubbing his chin in thought. "Okay, I can do that. That leaves Al and Lenalady. What're ya gonna do, ladies?"

"I will hurt you," Allen said immediately, but sighed. "I was _going_ to call couch, but the narc named _Jackarse_—I mean, Kanda—took it before I could."

"Tough shit, kid," Kanda replied with a shrug. "Life happens."

"You _arse_."

Lenalee had the expression of a resigned old woman, and she played with a pigtail for the sake of a distraction. "You can sleep with _me_, Al_len_," she offered, rolling her eyes once more. "I mean, I don't bite, and Komui wouldn't get juiced at all."

"…I'm _truly_ apologetic, Lenalee," the gentleman named Allen replied, raking his fingers through his white hair. "But, it would be terribly uncomfortable—"

"Or, you can sleep with Lavi."

Allen looked at the drummer, who made a rude gesticulation towards his crotch and some odd hip gyration, and turned back to Lenalee. "—uncomfortable for _Kanda_ because he _wishes_ he could sleep with a girl as easily as I can."

The Chinese girl laughed, poking him in the cheek. "You are _too_ cute," she replied.

Lavi looked a little disappointed, but Allen could summon no sympathy for him.

Kanda narrowed his eyes, tapping an index against his bicep. "It's nice that you found a place to sleep—now, try using it for practice or some shit like that." He curled his lip in disdain. "I'm tired as something I can't even fucking say, and you all need to be asleep too. Otherwise, I'd _never_ get any silence."

Lenalee stuck her tongue out at the guitarist in a show of much maturity. "You're just pissed because I'm sleeping with your boyfriend."

* * *

A long wait, yes. D: I apologize greatly for the inconvenience, and can promise you a much earlier update for the next chapter. I'd forgotten to write down what I was _originally_ going to write, so I had to sit down and think-think-think.

On the plus side, Emiggax has her Internet back, I am a high school senior, and the Battle of the Bands officially begins (with music) next chapter. We _are_ taking suggestions for songs, even little ditties that you might've written yourself. :D Just, remember that Lenalee is the lead singer for the Black Order—but, since there are other bands, with male lead singers, you can find a song for them too.

(I love character development. :D Don't you?) (This is a pretty short author's note. It's probably because I'm so tired.) (Oh, yeah, you all should know the drill by now: Bonnaire is a real character from the manga. Have stock characters, will recycle.)


	34. Come On Eileen

_THIRTY-FOUR_

September 6th, 1985.

About four years ago, Allen was quite the traveller.

After his father's untimely death, his uncle received a sort of semi-custody –some crap about being the only living relative in the immediate area. Or something. Allen didn't really know how to classify Her Majesty's government and their take on child abuse.

But, _anyway_.

Marian Cross simply wasn't the kind of bloke to stay in one place for extended periods of time. Much like he wasn't the kind of bloke to drive the speed limit no matter the country or state, or how he wasn't the kind of bloke to stay sober before any bloody time available.

And, yes, Allen was a little spiteful at times. But this is not the point.

Cross travelled a lot—he was a renowned aeronautical scientist or some shite like that. When he got custody of a kid, it was pretty much "Huh, now that I'm kind of a father, I should probably stop my womanizing ways and move into some place semi-permanently until the kid goes to university—_but,_ that would be synonymous with faggot. Yeah, _no_." And Allen was simply dragged along for the wonderful, _wonderful_ ride.

He named those three to four years 'Hell.'

It was through Hell that he gained a certain discomfort for hotels.

Okay, yes, he did kind of like room-service and, if available, he loved to swim in long-sleeved dark shirts.

But, Allen just severely disliked the more technical details.

Those rooms were always almost claustrophobically small—the ceilings seemed too low, the walls seemed to close, and the air felt limited. And this was when he was in a room by _himself_—he doesn't even want to attempt describe his horror associated with Cross and a hotel.

Another thing was that even though there were probably a billion other people staying in that same hotel building at the same time, it was always _creepy_ quiet. A little unnerving, really.

And, Allen, scowled at the thought, the small dingy televisions that hotels on the occasion provided only had, like, _three_ channels! And only _one_ of those was actually worth considering watching.

All in all, Allen Walker did not like hotels.

_Especially_ hotel room suites with full-sized beds that just so happened to hold a Lenalee Lee on the left side, hogging up the comforter and kicking the life out of his kneecaps.

"_Nngn_," Lenalee groaned in her slumber, tossing a little.

Allen stayed awake even _harder_ at her sounds of life. The poor teenager was _scared out of his blooming wits_, he was. It was in concern for his horribly attractive female friend. What if he was secretly a sexual deviant at night? What if he did something horribly awkward?

What if Komui found out that he was sleeping with his sister? Like, _literally_.

_Sunday, Monday, happy days!_ he thought as a cold sweat formed on his forehead. _Tuesday, Wednesday, happy days! Thursday, Friday, happy days! Saturday—what a day! Rockin' all week with yooou!_

The sweet sounds of the 'Happy Days' theme song did manage to calm him down. Which he thanked God for, because the floor was hardwood and he did _not_ want to sleep on that.

But, because the Lord obviously wants to see him squirm—someone knocked on the glass door.

The reaction was immediate. "What the—" Allen hissed, sitting up as carefully as possible. He could _feel_ his face morph into the most unimpressed expression he had in his arsenal.

Then the arseholes knocked again.

Allen scowled further. He must've been dealing with perverts. Let a few guys hear about a pretty girl in a hotel suite and it's suddenly a party.

The British boy swung his legs over to the side of the bed—quietly of course—and cursed because the wooden flooring was anti-warm. He stumbled the distance to the door, rubbing his arms to generate some quick heat.

There were blinds in front of the glass door, so Allen pushed them to the side with narrowed eyes. He steeled himself for _anything_ possible—Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Joseph Stalin. In fact, he was even ready for _Tyki Mikk_.

Unfortunately, with his luck, he got the next best thing.

"_Boooo_," David whispered loudly, pressing his face to the glass for a smushing effect. Jasdero waved behind him, and Allen almost _killed_ two pianists that he considered respecting. "Oi! I said _boooo_."

The white-haired teenager jiggled the lock, snapping it up with a bit of an attitude. He slid the door to the side roughly—but also silently, mind you—and stepped out, closing the door with considerable more grace.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Allen greeted, remembering his manners just in time. He scowled before they could extend the sentiment, sadly. "Now, what the bloody hell in _heaven_ could you _possibly_ want?" he asked as calmly as he felt he was allowed. "Now, I'm not too sure about _you_, but it's, uh." He dared to look at his watch and sighed. "Well, it's not daylight, wankers."

Jasdero smiled, and those horribly painful-looking lip piercings stretched with the movement. "'Ey, c'mon now, mate!" he replied shrewdly, flicking a lock of his long golden hair over his shoulder. "Davie an' I were bored, an' ye weren't sleepin', now _were_ you?"

David laughed. "Awake as the day, eh?" he teased, throwing his arm across the younger teenager's shoulders. "By the by—nice skivvies, mate."

Allen flushed, embarrassed at his dress of a tee-shirt and a pair of black boxers. "Anyway!" he snapped, shoving the older twin away. "This does not change why you are standing in front of me on the second floor balcony of a hotel. How the bloody hell did you even _get_ here?"

The dark-haired teenager chuckled goodnaturedly, his arm again looping around Allen's neck. "Don't get ye panties in a knot, A-Walk," he purred, rubbing his cheek against the white hair of the struggling boy. "We climbed up here, ye dimwit. And, yer, like, the only bloke here near our age, y'know what I mean?"

"Yeah!" Jasdero agreed, grinning in glee. "Like, ain't ye sixteen or seventeen? 'Cause we're eighteen!"

Allen ceased his struggling by a small modicrum. He was actually a little charmed that they assumed he was older—puberty really _did_ work wonders! "My bandmates, Lavi and Kanda," he replied, furrowing his eyebrows. "They're, ah, they're nineteen. Lavi recently turned this year at that!"

The twins glanced at each other with some weird half-amused, half-disgusted expression, and David sighed. "A-Walk, we like you," he explained, poking the boy's pale cheek. "In _fact_, we're really ratha' fond'a ye—this, _howeva'_, doesn't go out to the rest o' ye band."

"Pretentious yanks," the blond teenager agreed, crossing his arms.

"And a Jap," David added.

"And a chink."

"What was the point of using racial slurs to describe my band members?" Allen asked, resisting the urge to rub his temples. "Because, despite what you think, I am fond of my own band myself."

"Well," Jasdero shrugged. "We hate yer band, A-Walk."

"But, we _do_ love you!" David crooned, tightening his hold.

Well, he tightened his hold which was still around Allen's neck. "Can't—breathe—_choking_—death," he wheezed, tugging at the unnaturally stong grip faltering his respiratory system.

The dark-haired twin loosed his hold with a surprised bark of laughter. "Look at ya! Dyin' and shite 'cause of hugs!" he exclaimed, ruffling the younger boy's hair. "Duff Brit."

"Bugger off," Allen sniffed, smiling despite himself. He raked his fingers through his hair, glacing at the glass door to the side. "And, _quiet down_, twits! I'd rather not see Lenalee burst through those doors to find me fraternizing with the enemy."

"Enemy?" the twins chorused, sharing another _look_, and Jasdero leaned against the steel railing enclosing the balcony. "Ye _can't_ be the enemy. Yer like one of us _Noah_—just, y'know, in a crap band with a really, _really_ stupid name."

"Oh come off it—we picked the name from a hat!" Okay, now that he said it out loud, it _did_ sound a little stupid.

"No matta', mate," the blond twin waved a hand in dismissal, reaching the other arm behind his back. "Davie 'n I have somethin' to show ye—we think you'll _love_ it!"

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "We aren't scheduled for a homicide, are we?" he asked blandly.

David playfully knocked him atop the head. "None'a that, A-Walk," he replied. "It's not Wednesday. Any roads, you need to take a gander at our newest mag!"

Jasdero straightened out a glossy magazine, a smirk wide on his lips. "America's not good fer much," he said. "But! I'd be a liar and a cheat if I said that they didn't have the best pics." He flipped through the pages, squinting in the darkness of the Southern night. "Nice! Found it!"

He just about shoved the open magazine in Allen's face, the centerfold falling out in parts. "Gorgeous, ain't she?" he asked eagerly.

The white-haired boy squinted at the centerfold, and he snatched it. "I can't see from that angle," he explained, and turned so the soft light of the balcony was directly illuminating the pages.

He immediately made a face. But he didn't know if it was of disgust or…_something_.

"Well? What do ye think?" David asked, impatient. "C'mon out with it, A-Walk—do ye like it?"

"Um." Allen stared at the provocative pose of the African-American woman, her legs spread to accentuate the folds of her…_vaginal area oh Lord_ and long, dark fingers pulled at her brown nipples. "This…this is. Uh. This is…_great_." He grimaced. "_Fantastic_."

It wasn't fantastic at all.

David eyed him suspiciously. "Don't sound like ye think it's too great," he stated offhandedly.

_That's because I just vomited a little inside_. "What? Oh, no!" Allen laughed, horribly nervous. "It's wonderful—_great_. Worth the erection!" One day, he'll be a normal teenaged boy—just watch.

Jasdero frowned. "'Worth the erection?'" he repeated dubiously. He quite boldly grabbed at Allen's crotch. Allen, of course, dodged the hand with a yelp and a glare of offense. "Ye ain't got a need to wack off at all!"

"Keep your _bloody_ hands to yourself!" Allen snapped, and he groaned deep in his throat as he rubbed his forehead to ease away the wrinkles. "Okay, I admit it. No, I _don't_ get off on the sight of the degrading of women, and I _apologize_ for that."

David rubbed his chin, cocking an eyebrow in question. "…So yer a faggot?" he asked, grinning. "Not a problem—I can get a pic of Mikky Ol' Boy as naked as the day he was born, not an issue—"

"I'm _not gay_," Allen said very calmly, he liked to think. "I do not harbor illicit feelings for _any_ male. Or female," he added as an afterthought. "I don't wack off—no reason and all." He sighed. "I'm sorry, David and…Jazz?"

The blond teenager didn't look offended. "Jasdero," he corrected.

"Right, Jazz-Aero." Allen smiled, embarrassed. "I'm really apologetic, though, that you came all this way to share your…book of human anatomy with me, and I can't even appreciate it."

"Oh, posh," David scoffed, rolling his golden eyes. "We already knew ya wouldn't like it."

"We just wanted to see you squirm," Jasdero followed up, smiling widely. "T'was totally worth it, by the by."

"…" And here he was actually considering _not_ killing the two. "_Ugh_." Allen fixed his face into a thin-lipped frown. "Just. _Leave_."

The twins snickered, and they shared a high-five. "We really do love ye, A-Walk," David said with a grin, and he punched the younger Englishman on the shoulder playfully. "I mean, I'd love for ya to join _Noah's Ark_—"

"—but that would be way too many synths in one place," Jasdero said, scratching his chest idly. "We all can't be _A Flock of Seagulls_, really."

Allen never wanted to join _Noah's Ark_ in his life. So far, every band member he has had the _wonderful_ fortune to meet is a bloody _psycho_.

And Tyki Mikk is the lead singer.

This blatantly means molestation by default.

"I think I will be just fine in the _Black Order_," he replied, smiling quirkily.

"Yeah, okay. _Sure_." Jasdero snorted in laughter. "Ye keep on sayin' that, A-Walk."

David hopped on the railing and swung his legs over the side, flipping a false salute towards the white-haired pianist. "Later days, ya little mutant," he said with a wink. Then he _jumped off the bloody balcony_.

Allen, to his credit, did not scream. He just felt his blood run cold in his veins and his heart stop in his chest.

_Psychotic arseholes!_ He shuddered and looked at the younger twin, hoping to the Lord that he'll do something sensible. Like, _take the front door _or _call a rescue squad_.

Jasdero patted his back. "Davie's jumped off a moving tank before," he offered like that was supposed to make Allen feel so much better. "And I do _Parkour_—a real _traceur_!"

The British boy could feel his sanity slipping away by _contact_ alone. This was like talking to Kanda, except more disturbing and he still had the same IQ—he was just feeling a little barmy, is all.

"Can I borrow your synthesizer?" he asked while he was still feeling crazy. It couldn't've hurt—he needed to play _something_ tomorrow.

The blond man stared at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Ye didn't bring yers?" he asked, a hand on his blue-jean clad hips.

"I was a little pre-occupied." Allen replied. _You know, nutty uncles and psycho Chinese singers that can't drive._ "I'm lucky I brought my underwear, really."

"Huh." Jasdero scratched his head, and he turned around, leaning his bare stomach against the balcony railing. "_Oi_! Davie!"

The dark-haired brother looked up, irritated. "What the fuck's takin' ye so long?" he yelled back, and Allen looked at the glass door in a bit of a panic.

"A-Walk wants to borrow our synth!"

"Where the hell's _his_?"

"He said he don't know!"

David tapped his foot against the ground in thought and he furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "Fine!" he shouted. "But let A-Walk know that if somethin' happens to our synth—his arse is _ours_!"

"If somethin' happens to our synth, we get to molest you," Jasdero said to Allen, who believed that David did _not_ mean that, but whatever.

"Then I can assure you that nothing will happen to your synth." No, really, he was being serious.

Jasdero grinned, his piercings once against freaking out the younger Englishman. "Smashing!" he crowed, and he jumped onto the railing, his back to the ground floor. He waved jauntily. "See ye tomorrow—or, later today. Don't know the time!" He fell back off the railing, and Allen assumed he landed on his feet when he hit the ground.

He had a bad, _bad_ feeling about this whole Battle of the Bands event.

----

Lenalee woke up that morning feeling more awesome than average.

The sun was shining through the window—that _used_ to be totally covered with blinds, but maybe Allen went out to smoke or something—and from a distance, she could still hear the sound of practice for the Battle.

She opened her eyes, grinning. It was 1985, eight in the morning, and she was feeling on top of the freaking _world_!

"Hey, morning, Al," she greeted, sitting up and stretching her arms with a small grimace. Lenalee peeked at her bedmate, frowning. "Are you seriously still asleep? Dude, bogus—wake up!" She leaned over and jostled his shoulder, huffing.

Allen was curled to the side as close to the edge of the bed as was virtually possible. At her touch, though, he jumped like a Vietnam veteran and fell off the bed with a short yelp.

Lenalee stared at his twitching body. "…Are you okay?" she asked carefully.

The younger teenager groaned in reply, muttering a bunch of United Kingdom related curses that she probably would never understand.

"Okay," she said. There was a small bit of silence, and Lenalee coughed into her fist. "Well, I'm going to go…get ready. You, uh, you get your life together."

"—_bloody twins bunch 'o wankers! Can't trust a Noah as far'a'ye can throw one! Damn Mikk—_" Allen continued hissing as he unsteadily stood up, rubbing his wrinkled red arm. "_Shite. _I must've angered the Lord in a past life or _something_."

Lenalee nodded slowly. She always thought Allen would be one of those people who woke up with a smile and without a complaint in the world—and then it ended up she was horribly wrong. "I'm, uh, I'm sure you did, Al," she replied, standing up from the edge of the bed cautiously.

"Huh?" The British boy looked at her dumbly, and he shook his head furiously. "Oh, _wow_, I completely forgot about you. Good day to you, Lenalee!" He smiled brightly, bowing with a hand behind his back. "All right this fine morning?"

"…" So, he was one of those schizophrenic morning people. Lenalee grinned back. "I'm amped—I can only take a wild guess that you…aren't?"

Allen laughed so fake she was almost offended. "Nonsense!" he insisted, rubbing his chin like there was actually facial hair there. "I am having the _time_ of my _bloody life_. I just woke up from a smashing three hour _nap_ sharing the bed—and no comforter, by the _way_—with my best female friend who just so happens to have a psychotic brother that _kills people_. I believe I can accurately tell you how many bumps are on the ceiling and how many times Kanda has groaned in his sleep."

"Why would you know how many times Kanda makes weird noises?" Yes. Her imagination just went _wild_.

The younger teenager levelled a peculiar _look_ at her. "Because I was awake. For about _seventy_ percent of the night." He sniffed, affronted. "I'd be offended if I _didn't_ know that Kanda made a sort of 'urgh' sound as he slept."

…_I love being in a mostly-male band_. "That's hot," Lenalee replied with a nod. Then she scratched behind her head, sheepish. "Are you annoyed? Or, well, um. Irritated?"

"Just a little," Allen said with a sigh and a one-shouldered shrug. "But, it doesn't matter—I am still ready to compete in a blunt musical competition so I can go home and never leave my room again!"

"Why—"

"I'll be _grounded_, Lenalee. Cross is going to verifiably _murder_ my pale arse when this is over."

Lenalee winced. That hot redhead of a stud had a _gun_—a gun that he actually _used_. "If it makes you feel any better, Komui totally thinks I'm spending the night with, like, my girlfriends," she said.

Allen stared at her for at least a minute. "…You aren't very good at the whole making me feel better thing, are you?" he asked blandly.

"Okay, _no_, I'm not very good at that at all," the Chinese girl affirmed, crossing her arms. "But at least I tried! Jeez!"

"You did," he agreed, grinning. _God_ he was so good-looking for a fifteen-year-old in the throes of puberty. She _personally_ couldn't wait until his voice started cracking. "And that should be all that matters, really." He stretched, his spine making a disgusting cracking noise in the process. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of himself—which was great because Lenalee didn't want to do so for him. "Can you, err, hurry and take your shower? Because—"

"No need for words, my good man!" Lenalee replied cheerfully. "I'll just bounce on over to the bathroom then—don't go through my underwear!"

Allen shook his head, amused. "Please, do not worry about _me_," he said sarcastically.

"I never do." Lenalee winked at him as she opened the suite door with more passion than was probably necessary. "Boys! Lady coming through—I need to take off my clothes for a shower!"

"Oh K-_RAD_—shit, Komui's behind this isn't he?!"

"Goddamnit Lenalee, keep your clothes on until I'm done with my chords!"

----

Kanda woke up particularly early this morning so he could play Mugen for his own personal comfort.

Unfortunately, Jesus Christ did not like his plea for solitude and just a _little_ bit of quiet.

There must've been some bogus rule that when one person was awake, _everyone_ _else_ would go, all, hey, we should wake up too and _bother the shit out of our poor guitarist_!

"Shit, where's my eyepatch?" Cyclops cried as he stumbled over Kanda's leg. He looked at the self-proclaimed _poor guitarist_, his one good green eye wide with panic and the area surrounding the closed eye amusingly paler than the rest of his skin. "I can't see without my eyepatch!"

The Japanese man cracked open one eye, his index finger pausing over the taut strings of Mugen. "Shut the _fuck_ up," he snapped, breathing heavily with a sense of agitation. "God fuckin' _damn_ it—did you check your suite?"

"Ch'_duh_, Yuu," and the redhead rolled his green eye. Hoser. "I probably wouldn't be here if I didn't check my suite. Let's be a _little_ smarter with our questions, buddy."

"I will shove your eyepatch—"

Then Lenalee screamed in horror and ran out of her suite, her face pale and eyes wild. "Oh my _god_ guys," she started in a rush, stepping up to Lavi quickly. "We have a bad situation here—a code red! A kidnapping!"

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Kanda demanded, already tired of this shit.

The singer looked at him with such a pitiful face that he kind of felt bad. "I can't find my red shirt," she said sadly. "This outfit will look so…_bad_ if I don't have the red shirt, Kanda! And I don't mean that in the good way!"

Yeah, he was definitely tired of this shit.

"Why can't you wear the _other_ shirts you have?" Kanda asked, exasperated. "I mean, shit, they all look the same to me anyway."

Lenalee stared at him, upper lip slightly curled in disgust. "You really _are_ a guy," she whispered, actually surprised. "Just, I mean, I know you've got a dick and all—but, your _personality_…"

"Yuu is _clearly_ the manliest guy in this band," Lavi stated, rolling his eye. "The only person who vaguely competes is, like, _Allen_." At the twin looks of utter disbelief from the other two band members, he hurried to elaborate. "I mean, he _looks_ like a faggot and has no problem with it—that is mad _confident_. Real men have high self-esteem, like _dur_."

"Then Kanda really is the manliest man here," Lenalee said with a grin and an elbow to the guitarist's shoulder. "Like, _everything_ is beneath His Highness. Even other men."

Kanda scowled, utterly bewildered. "Whatever the fuck you guys are talking about, _quit it_," he snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You are giving me a headache and I have to play goddamn music with you people later. _Spare me_."

The One-Eyed Weirdo laughed like there was actually something _funny_ around. "She was calling you a conceited faggo—" but he was interrupted when the bathroom door swung open, a burst of white steam rushing out the doorway.

The brat—Allen, that was his name—stepped out with a jaunty whistle, a towel tied around his hips and his wrinkled red hand lightly scratching at his stomach. Yet, Kanda was trying _so fucking hard_ to not look at his waistline.

Holy shit—the kid had brown pubic hair. Didn't he say that he _didn't_ dye that shit on top of his head?

A sheen of moisture still shined on his lean, pale body, and his _totally dyed_ white hair was curly with the humidity that was probably his spa in the shower.

"…" The whistle died on his lips. He looked at everyone, because the other three members of their band could not take their eyes of his person either. "Why the bloody hell are you staring at me?"

"I love you. Please marry me," Cyclops said immediately, and recoiled after a small chordbook hit him on the side of his head. "_Shit_—that _kind_ of hurt, Yuu!"

Kanda was pleased, then. "I was just wondering how much longer it was going to take for you to grow _real_ pubes," he said as offhandedly as he could. Then he cursed in his mind—that implied that he actually looked towards the kid's crotch. Which he _did_, but, shit, he didn't need to know that!

Allen looked disturbed, and the Japanese man could _not_ blame him. "Well, how about _you_ tell _me_," he retorted. "I mean, since you _care_ so much."

_God-fucking-dammit now I look gay_. Kanda wanted to be back in his apartment in Virginia, smoking weed and channel surfing. This B of the B shit was already wearing at his nerves. "Don't be a faggot about it, skeezer," he grumbled, looking away.

"I could really say the same thing to you," Allen said grumpily, and he eyed the other two, annoyed. "And, why are you still here? The _both_—actually, _all_ of you."

Lenalee raised her hands in a sign of innocence. "Whoa, I came for fashion advice," she said, smiling. "I had no idea you were still chillin' in the shower. But, uh, I'll go into Lavi's suite if it makes you feel any better." She was already walking backwards, hands still in the air.

"It does, actually," the white-haired punk replied, smiling back with a nod. The smile immediately twisted into a frown once he turned to the older, _male_ occupants of the room. "And, you two. I mean no disrespect at all, and I know that we are all men here—yes, _Kanda_, it _is_ possible for you to shut your bloody mouth—but." He stopped the sentence abruptly, giving them some sort of meaningful look.

"…But?" Cyclops prompted, not getting the point of the look either.

"But, I'm going to need you to leave." Allen sighed, rubbing the side of his neck. "It's not that I don't trust you two, I mean, because I consider you my best mates." He grinned, shrugging. "But, Lavi, you're a _pervert_ and Kanda just made a comment pertaining to my _pubic hair_. I like to think I'm reasonable with my…discomfort."

Kanda grunted as he stood, Mugen swung over his shoulder. He made sure to glare at the kid though—he wasn't on the same level as _Cyclops_. That was a fucking insult.

"Whatev'," he replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "I'm out. Since our synthesist is _obviously_ a little girl about this kind of shit." He sneered, flipping his long black hair over his shoulder. "I'd _love_ to see you in a school shower, brat."

"And I'm sure you would, Lover Boy," Allen replied snarkily. Kanda did _not_ like snark. "No, don't stop walking. Please, leave, before my virginity is suddenly missing."

Cyclops snorted. "Okay, yeah," he said, amused. He walked back into his suite, laughing like a jackass. "Because Yuu is the biggest threat to that—_okay_."

"How the hell do you know I'm _not_?" Kanda demanded, shoving the loser through the doorway. He paused, grimacing. "I mean, _shit_, of course I'm not." He kicked the door behind him, groaning.

Lenalee and Cyclops both shared an expression that said more than they ever could.

"I hate the both of you," he said, just in case they didn't know.

Today was not his day, so far.

----

Lavi really, _really_ wanted a cigarette.

"So, you bunks know how to do this shit?" Skin Boric asked with his obscenely muscular arms crossed over his bulging pectoral muscles. Did he eat children to get that size? Because he totally _looked_ the part. "Like, y'all ever battled as a band before?"

"No," Lavi replied, leaning heavily against his British friend. Allen rolled his eyes at the question as well, because did they _look_ like they've been a band more than a year. "This is our first year, sweetheart." He smiled cockily. "But, hey, please _enlighten_ us."

Skin glanced at him. "I can turn you into a pretzel," he commented like there was going to be rain tomorrow. The rest of his goddamn band snickered at how Lavi paled, and Tyki Mikk made chewing motions to mock him.

The drummer's smile died a little. "Oh, I'm sure," he said, subtly patting his jean pockets for a smoke. He didn't smoke often at all—but, this shit was _stressful_.

"Anyway." The large, dark-skinned man began to pace in front of them, probably pretending this was some sort of musical boot camp. Lavi snorted; that would be _ridiculous_. "This is how it's gonna go, a'ight?" He paused, looking at the _Black Order_ expectantly. "_A'ight_?"

"A'ight!" Allen squeaked.

Yuu covered his mouth loosely as he yawned. "What_ever_," he grumbled.

Lenalee flipped off a fake salute. "Yessir!" she exclaimed.

"O_kay_," Lavi said, annoyed.

"A'ight, then," Skin stood up straight, grinning. A lollipop stick protruded from between his lips, kind of freaking out Lavi for the most part. "There are three days for this shit. Actually, it's more like two and a half—you've gotta be gone by midnight on Day Three."

"Or the police _will_ be on your ass," Lulu Bell said sweetly. "Believe me—you want that _less_ than my favorite cousin, here." She jabbed a thumb in the direction of Tyki Mikk, who blew a kiss at Allen.

Allen shivered under Lavi's one-armed embrace.

"Today, _obviously,_ is Day One," the Louisianian continued. "So, it's gonna be pretty basic. There are two stages, and, uh, a _lot_ of bands. But, there is a whole lot mo' peeps just hanging, and they are the judges. Kinda." He scratched his head, frowning. "Each band will go on a stage, but you'll only be allowed to do _one_ song. Ya heard that, crackers? _One song_."

"Okay, I got that," Lenalee mused aloud, tapping her chin. "So, we just have to play our best song and hope everyone likes it?"

Skin shook his head. "Y'see, that's what messes y'all losers up," he reprimanded, sighing. "There's more shit that's gotta happen here, and wasting your best song? Whack." He smirked. "I'm sure you kids have a few nursery rhymes that can make those retards clap like monkeys."

Lavi wanted to punch him, but goddamn his Drummer Respect—he couldn't beat the shit out of someone who understood the beat nearly as well as him.

"So, after all that shit, there'll be a short competition for the singers," Skin said. "It's, uh. Well, I ain't a singer, so, um. Tyki!"

Tyki hopped off the hood of his car, fixing the collar of his shirt with a smile. "The singing part is too easy," he said in his stupid, sensual voice. "All you're going to do is pretend you are in the shower and sing like the world isn't watching."

Allen rubbed his chin. "That's…that's horribly vague," he stated slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. Lenalee nodded in agreement, frowning.

"What did you want me to say?" the Portuguese man replied, grinning. "'Sing in front of a microphone in front of a panel of judges?' Because that is a very boring explanation."

"But." Lavi blinked. "It's _effective_."

"Your cease to existence would also be effective," Tyki said calmly. "And yet, _here_ you are."

"I _wish_ I could turn you into a pretzel."

"I am a lot more flexible than you think. Isn't that right, Allen?"

Allen's eyes widened, and he gaped in horror. "Why the bloody hell would _I_ know?" he demanded.

"Because—"

Skin stomped a foot on the ground. "Shuddup!" he barked, huffing. "Nobody cares, Tyki. Nobody cares, Midget. And the Lord forbid _anyone_ care, One-Eyed Willy."

Lavi officially hated that nickname more than any other name he'd been or had called anyone in his life.

"Okay." Skin grinned again. "Now, listen up. At night, there's going to be the part that'll separate the men from the boys—the girls from the ladies—the lesbians from the questionably bisexual—"

"Shut the fuck up," Yuu growled. "And _please_ stop wasting every minute of my life."

"Man, youse guys need a nicer guitarist. Like Rhode, our li'l sweetheart." The little girl smiled at them innocently, but they knew better. "But! Like I was _sayin'_—tonight is when the competion will be cut down to, like, twenty or somethin'."

Lenalee stared at him. "…Are you going to tell us what it's about?" she asked.

Skin smirked. "I _could_…but, then that would be bogus—don't'cha think?" he asked with false-kindness.

The Chinese girl almost started getting pissed, but Yuu snorted. "Calm down," he said, picking up Mugen's case from its spot against his leg. "They _are_ the enemy. I'm still amazed that they gave us _this_ much info—mad suspicious to me." He glared at _Noah's Ark_. "Is this shit rigged? Let's be serious here."

"…" Skin cocked an eyebrow, his smirk falling a little. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because I _can_. Answer."

Their rival band became oddly serious, a tense air surrounding the group of people. Lavi wanted to shake his head—leave it to Yuu to fuck up the atmosphere.

And then Tyki Mikk laughed, delighted. "Then, let me answer you," he purred, smiling widely. "You won't be getting first place—I can _assure_ you that much." The dark-skinned man hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his fitted dark denim jeans. "All other positions? Hey, have fun."

Yuu nodded, shouldering his guitar case. "Awesome," he said blandly. He looked at the other members, irritated as always. "What the hell are you waiting for? Christmas?" He snorted. "Let's get our asses moving—Cyclops doesn't have a trap set and these hosers aren't going to volunteer anymore info."

Lavi sighed, already missing his drums. And his cat—Hammer was _probably _pissing off his grandpa by now, the crazy kitten. "Yeah, yeah," he agreed lazily, pushing himself off the younger teenager and following his self-proclaimed best friend. "I've already got it covered—oh, _Yuuu_!" He smiled charmingly, trotting up to the side of the angry, _angry_ young man. Lavi leaned over, grinning wider. "Remember Madarao?"

Yuu froze, his eyes wide. "No _fucking_ way," he hissed, glaring hell and beyond and the redhead.

"Yes fucking way." Lavi nodded in agreement. "_Third_ is here—and Tokusa is just a little pissed that you, y'know, didn't keep contact and _all_."

"I want nothin' to do with those freaks," the Japanese man growled, grabbing Lavi by the front of his shirt. "You keep them out of my fucking life, and I _won't_ end yours."

Lavi totally believed that Yuu could pull off writing a book about Empty Threats. "Oh, yeah, sure," he said, his expression devious. "Unfortunately, you should've at least _suspected_ that they were gonna be here. It's a _band battle_, numbnuts!"

"I'll kill you!"

"Not until I get my trap from Goushi," he replied cockily. "Y'see, coming down from Manhattan and all, they went through Virginia." Lavi laughed. "What can I say—I'm an opportunist."

Yuu's fist gripped his shirt, making wrinkles that would probably never come out for a very long time. With a guttural snarl, he shoved Lavi away from him and stalked away, bristling like a cat.

Lenalee, who was watching their interaction with half-interest and half-horror, trotted up to his side, and she straightened his shirt. "What the _hell_, Lavi?" she demanded. "What did you do to piss him off _now_?"

"Oh come _on_—I don't make him angry _that_ often!" Lavi whined, scratching behind his head.

Allen snorted, walking in the general direction of Yuu. "Now let's try saying that again—but this time, the _truth_, if you will," he said, waving a hand. "Come on, now. We've got an hour to set up—and I've got to get half a synth from two psychos."

----

"_Welcome_!" Sherman's voice boomed through the speakers, and he grinned against the microphone. "To the _Battle of the Bands_—in 1985!"

The screams from the audience were deafening, and he laughed in a delighted way at their enthusiasm. "Yes, it _is_ that awesome," he said, chuckling. His expression became serious and he straightened his posture. "I am Sherman Camelot—some of you may know me as the VJ for VH-1, prime time, while others know me as a television personality for NBC. But, now," he smirked. "You can get to know me as the host for this intense event!"

Lenalee shrieked in joy with the rest of the female population in the audience, and her male band members were not impressed at all.

"What is the Battle of the Bands?" Sherman continued, beginning a walk across the stage. He kept his eyes on the audience, probably gauging their interest. "In the Battle of the Bands, over a hundred bands will compete for the grand prize of five thousand dollars, ten free recording sessions in the _Millenium Record_'s own studio, a _free T-shirt_, and an original and _infamous_ Rickenbacker guitar."

"Pssh," Kanda clicked his tongue in disdain rolling his eyes. "That grand prize is lame."

"And the guitar is signed by _Pete Townshend_!"

Kanda froze at that, his eyes widening.

Allen snorted. "I thought the prize was _lame_, dear," he said mockingly.

"_Urgh—_shut the fuck _up!_"

The tanned man on stage smiled, impressed by the audience's awed reaction. "Makes you wish you all competed, doesn't it?" he asked, and waved his hands at the cries of affirmation. "Well, you _didn't_—tell yourself you're sorry."

"Jackarse," Allen said immediately.

"Agreed." Lavi affirmed, eyeing the host cautiously. "…Is it just me, or is he creepier in person?"

Kanda barked a cough. "He's creepier in person," he said.

Sherman looked over to the side, and frowned a little before the smile stretched his lips. "Before we begin this, allow me to introduce to you all our wonderful, _radical_ panel of judges!" He waved a hand towards the side of the stage, where a table was set up and a couple of people sat. "For your judging pleasure, we have _Fou_—" every woman and African-American cheered, even though she wasn't black. "—of _Branch Record_ fame."

The small woman put up her middle finger at the mass of people, and they _loved_ the disregard of respect for fans.

"Then, we have the one and only Galmar," a tawny-haired man who looked to be in his forties stood and bowed curtly, his moustache twitching with his frown. "The French producer for _G_, and he might be scouting today—so, look out!"

Lenalee winced. "Why do I not know who the hell they are talking about?" she asked.

"Because you aren't French, and thereby you don't care," Allen helpfully suggested.

Sherman smiled again, causing shivers to run down the spines of many. "And our last judge is missing, well, not _missing_, but he's running quite late. And, since we can't find a replacement in time, we're going to assume an air of mystery and let him be a surprise!"

There were murmurs of confusion among the music fans, and the host chuckled. "Yes, I said the same thing. But, without further ado—we can start the first challenge!"

Lavi whooped in joy, jumping on Allen's back and waving a fist. The British boy buckled a bit under his weight, but stayed steadfast as he got excited too.

"To the side of me is another stage," Sherman explained. "And the rules are simple—two bands will play one song, and whichever one _you_—the _audience_—cares the most for will advance to the next round. Do you understand?"

The audience screamed in response, affirming his statement. "Good." He snapped his fingers and some nameless assistant scurried to his person with an envelope. "We're going to start. Competitors, please group with your respective band if you haven't so far." Sherman opened the envelope, smirking. "Because we are about to begin. _Aztec Camera_ and _Midnight Oil_—please come to the stage!"

----

"_Black Order_ and _Hatchet_—please come to the stage!"

Lenalee gulped, clutching Allen's hand tightly in her grip. They were, like, the twenty-eighth pair—but, at least it finally happened.

"I've never heard of a _Hatchet_ before in my life," Kanda said once they were on the stage away from the judges, plugging his guitar into the amplifier.

Lenalee frowned, letting go of her British friend's hand. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" she asked, annoyed.

Kanda shrugged, adjusting Mugen appropriately. "Just sayin'," he grumbled. "How are we going to lose to some yuppies we've never even heard of? Because that would suck, big time."

"Oh, _Yuu_," Lavi murmured, rolling his one eye as he plopped behind an unfamiliar trap set. "That would imply that we had a chance at actually, you know, _losing_."

"I refuse to lose to whoever these _Hatchets_ are," Allen agreed, stretching his arms with a frown. "I mean, did you see the _hair_ on them? That, that's _abuse_."

Lenalee tried to hold back her giggle, but failed. "That rocks," she said, grinning. The girl put up her fist. "Now, we should rock too!"

Lavi pumped his fist in the air towards her direction. "What else did we come here for?" he chided playfully, smiling widely.

Kanda smirked, waving a hand in her direction. "I don't do those faggotry team poses, especially when we're going to win," he said, fingers tense on the neck of his beautiful guitar.

"Kanda might not do team poses in public," Allen stated, and he put his fist in the air, grinning. "But, I'm with you, Miss Lee! I'm grounded until I am reincarnated—but that is _okay_!"

Lenalee laughed, putting her fist down. She pivoted on her heel, stepping with a bit of confidence towards the lonely microphone in the front of the stage. She grabbed it with a shaky hand, and breathed deeply as she closed her eyes. They could _do_ this—they worked hard for this!

The teenager tapped her finger against the microphone. "Hello?" she spoke, and was pleased with the volume. Lenalee looked out at the crowd—they had a bit more than expected. Probably because of Allen's white hair, Lavi's eyepatch, Kanda's horrible attitude, and her awesome.

"Hi everybody!" she greeted, waving. A select few in their small audience actually waved back. "Okay, well, we're the _Black Order_, from Hampton, Virginia. If it's cool with you guys, I'm going to skip the intro of us band members and go straight to the music, all right?"

There was a low murmur of affirmation, and she nodded. "Okay. Ready, men?!" she called, looking behind her shoulder.

"Ready!" Lavi and Allen called together, while Kanda just rolled his eyes.

"Awesome!" Lenalee held up a fist. "Lavi, start us off! _Atomic_, just like we planned!" Atomic was a mostly instrumental piece, just to give the audience a feel for what they sounded like in general. It was written by her, actually—and it didn't have many words, so to speak.

"Choice!" the red-haired drummer tapped his drumsticks together, counting off the snaps of wood. "One, two, one two three _four_!" And his timing was impeccable with Kanda, for they both started hitting their appropriate notes in an arpeggio of sound.

Allen was practically slamming his keys in the mix, and it was all up to Lenalee to make sure that the timing wasn't messed up forever.

_One, two, three_, she counted in her mind, tapping her foot against the stage to the melody behind her.

The drums slowed their throbbing tempo, leaving Kanda to keep up the pace with his skilled fingerwork on the strings of Mugen. Allen kept to the lower notes, grinning at the singer. With one hand he counted off to keep her on time, and Kanda eased out of his guitar solo while nodding at her.

_Onetwothree_! "_Uh huh, make me toniiiiiight,_" she sung into the microphone, the metal coils touching her glossy lips. The erratic drumming of Lavi accomanied her, and she felt a little more confident. "_Toniiiiiight—make it riiii-iiiiight!  
Uh huh, make me toniiiiight—  
Toniiiiiight!  
Tooniiiiiiiight!_"

The audience liked them so far—quite a few more people had wandered over towards their stage, and Lenalee smiled at their choice audience.

"_Uh huh, make it magnificent!_" she continued singing, closing her eyes whatever was in front of her. "_Toniiiight—riiiiight! Ooh, your hair is beautiful—toniiiiiight!_" And then she lowered her voice for one particular part. "…_Atomic!_"

Kanda picked right back up with his guitar, tapping his Converse-clad feet against the wooden stage. It was always amazing to see him play guitar for a solo—his fingers never missed their target chord, and the grip on the guitar's neck was enough to strangle it, but yet it still came out great.

"_Toniiiiight, make it magnificent!_" Lenalee caught her cue the moment the guitar started to even _slightly_ slow down. "_Toniiiight—make me toniii-iiiight!  
Your hair is beautiful!  
Oh, toniiiiight!_" She pulled her mouth away from the microphone, flipping her bangs out the way of her eyes. "_Atomic!_"

Lavi went crazy with the drums, and Lenalee opened her eyes again to find the front of their stage almost milling over with people. "_Aaa-tom-ic!_"

The guitar faded out, so the song was coming to an end.

Lenalee smiled against the microphone, happy. "_Aaa-tom-ic!_"

She knew today would be an awesome day.

* * *

OH HAY GUIZE

…Whoa, put down yer pitchforks and your wooden stakes—we're actually _not_ dead!

Waysie is back in business! …I mean, after the break that was totally unprecedented and all. Shit, guize, you gotta believe me—like, nothing in the Kaza's life was going right for a while, and then a bunch of MOAR crap happened, and then Emiggax was all, "Dude, Waysie, what's up?" and I was like, "Look, I have the chapter right here! Except, only like twenty percent done and with Allen/Lenalee porn, but HA HA DISREGARD THAT I SUCK COCKS" because my laptop's hard drive crashed.

And it took everything with it.

I mean, if you read Geeks in Love, you probably already know the story. But, since there is a ton of Laven fans cold-chillin' with us, I'm sure you don't read that. So, to make a long story short, my hard drive died a horrible death and I lost generally everything. Except for a select few songs and fanfiction from 2008 and earlier. :( Yeah, it really sucked. I had to rewrite this shit from the beginning, but then I made it better than ever! :D

By the by, **my computer no longer has spellcheck**. D: And I still refuse to get a beta, so um yeah. Yep, so if something is misspelled (and I mean an AMERICAN mistake, none of that 'that should totally be spelled _colour_' shit), feel free to let me know, eh? Lol, I've been feeling Canadian lately. :D What? It's the Winter Olympics? When was anyone gonna tell me this?!

ANYWAY, the BATTLE OF THE FUCKING BANDS YES next chapter will feature Tyki v. Lenalee for Allen's love! Actually, it's more like Tyki for Allen's love and Lenalee for the GRAND F-DUCKING PRIZE. Kanda has a conformation that he never wanted, and Lavi finally finds his Lucky Seven cigarettes! MOAR 80s MUSIC OCCURS! THERE IS A DANCE! THERE IS _DRAMA_! OMG THE _DRAMA_ is not nearly as serious as I make it seem. BUT KANDA FACES GHOSTS, ALLEN FACES GHOSTS, and LAVI FACES ANOTHER NIGHT JACKING OFF TO AN IMAGINARY BUT ODDLY FLEXIBLE BRITISH BEST FRIEND.

The song is **Atomic** by **Blondie**. Check it out. :) Btw, does anyone want a soundtrack at the end of this fic? Because I can totally whip one up when this is over. :D YOUR EARS MAY BLEED FROM THE RETROOOOO


	35. The Show

_THIRTY-FIVE_

On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the highest, Tyki's affection for one Allen Walker was probably off the charts.

But _not_ because it was illegal or anything! Tyki sniffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against a gate to the side of the cesspool of _diseased, pitiful_ humans. In his entirely factual opinion, there shouldn't have been something like a _limit_ on love—age or otherwise.

Yet, his feelings for Allen stopped with him alone—Tyki could _likely_ care less for the rest of that band than he did for the dirt underneath his shoes.

"Great job on making it to the next round," he congratulated with a forced smile at the presence of the _Black Order_. The smile became a little more real when the white-haired pianist shoved past the Japanese brute, and he pushed himself off the gate. "Of course, I never thought you _wouldn't_, so yeah."

Allen laughed, sticking his thumbs in his jean pockets. Tyki eyed those jeans—if they ever became loose or were replaced with track pants, he would denounce his religion and stand in moving traffic. "Thank you, Mikk," he replied with a quirky smile.

Tyki did not understand why anyone could ever consider him a pervert. "No problem," he said instead, shrugging. Wrapping an arm around the teenager's shoulders, the dark-skinned man herded him towards the parking lot. "Now, how about some Pepsi before Miss Ling has to go against me in the singing competition, hmm?"

"It's Lee," Allen corrected, and he chuckled nervously as he ducked underneath the man's hold. "And, you know, that _sounds_ great—but, uh, Kanda promised to take me out to lunch! Yes!"

Kanda, the Japanese brute, jumped, glaring at the boy. "The _fuck_ I—"

"Yes, sweetheart, you want me bent over your steering wheel," Allen rolled his eyes. "I already know. Any roads—to whatever restaurant we were going to!" He grabbed the man by the forearm and dragged him in some general direction away from the parking lot. The other two followed, obviously amused, and the redhead turned around _just_ to stick out his tongue at the Portuguese man.

Tyki blinked. What the hell just happened? He shook his head—that band was way too…_something_, for him. Asking if the competition was rigged! He snorted at the audacity of the question.

"Shit," he grumbled, rubbing his clean chin. The man wandered to his car, sighing. "What am I going to do with these two Pepsi's?" He got one because he learned through…_not-stalking_ that Allen enjoyed Pepsi, even though he was personally a Coca-Cola kind of guy. There was something about deteriorating innards that appealed to him, as odd as that sounded.

"I'll take one," a sly voice said from his side, and, to Tyki's credit, he turned around slowly enough to seem like he actually _knew_ the freak was there.

A light-haired man with a reptilian smile grinned at him, his already narrowed hazel eyes squinting with the movement. Several piercings gleamed from his ears, and his skin was almost unnaturally pale. Though, the dark-skinned man had to force himself to look away from the odd ponytail that hung just in front of his right temple—what the hell kind of hairstyle was _that_? Tyki understood it was 1985 and people were getting a little crazy with the hair products—but there were _limits_.

"Pepsi, please?" the horrendously odd man held out his hand, his grin still on his lips. His accent was thick with…_something_. Like, American, but at the same time horribly conceited and bored.

Tyki cocked an eyebrow. "Okay…sure," he said slowly, and gave the man his other can.

"Righteous," the odd man praised, popping open the can immediately. Bringing the metal rim to his lips, he tipped his head back and gulped down the carbonated soda like a dying man. "Ah!" he sighed in relief, leaning against Tyki's vehicle.

What the _hell_? "Look, no offense," Tyki began with a cocked eyebrow, meaning all the offense in the world. "But, do I _know_ you?"

The man perked up, looking at him with those narrowed, golden eyes. "Actually," he murmured, humming in thought. "Ya _don't_." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Tokusa."

Tyki looked at the hand with thinly veiled disgust. "And I'm still wondering why the hell you are occupying my personal space." He popped open his own can, sipping at it with considerable more grace.

"I'm th' synthesist of the band _Third_," Tokusa explained. "From th' Bronx, or New York City," which _totally_ explained the asshole accent. "And I was just trailin' my friends when I saw ya. You're Tyki Mikk, right?"

"Why do you care?" Tyki replied, bored. If this was a fan, Skin was going to have fun before nightfall.

Tokusa smirked, crushing his can and tossing it to the side. "I need'a bit of a favah," he said, sticking a hand in a denim pocket.

"Uh _huh_," the Portuguese man hummed idly, and he wondered why he didn't have a car phone. It would come in useful at times like this, like _seriously_. He eyed the synthesist in front of him with a bland expression, his lips in a thin line. Then, he smiled charmingly. "I can't imagine why any member of the hard rock sensation _Third_ would be asking _me_—meager singer for _Noah's Ark_—for a favor. It's…_suspicious_."

The light-haired man snickered. "Don't down my band, Mista' Mikk," he purred, standing up straight off the vehicle. He kicked the crushed can in the direction of Tyki, who kicked it back with an air of offense. "I don't need anything…_complicated_, okay skeeza'? I just need ya help." He paused. "Okay, ya influence."

"I don't know you," Tyki replied with a wider smile, brushing his bangs out the way of his eyes. "And I don't _like_ you. Your hair is horrible, by the way," he just needed to throw that in there while he could. "So, what could I possibly get out of helping a creep like you out?"

"And _then_ the pot called me black," Tokusa said with an eye-roll. Well, his eyes were squinted so much that it was hard to tell. "Anyhow, it's not hard. You and I _both_ know what competition is tomorra'."

"I _know_—I'm not exactly sure about yourself." Tyki did not like smartasses that asked him for favors—it was rude and didn't make any sense.

"Whatev'," the pale man shrugged, shaking his head. "But, make sure the _Black Ordah_ gets that far." He grinned, exposing his oddly bright white teeth. "They need to compete against _Third_, ya dig?"

Tyki hated to think it, but he was getting interested. "Can I ask why?" he replied, cocking a thin eyebrow. "I mean, the _Black Order_ is really a bunch of teenagers and an angel—I can't think about why _Third_ would care for them." He narrowed his golden eyes.

"It's got nothin' to do with my little buddy, Allen Walker, Tyki Mikk," Tokusa said, alleviating his minor fears. "We need to have a talk—but, sadly, the drumma' is our only source'a _communication_." He huffed, crossing his arm. "Gotta speak to the _real deal_, y'know what I mean?"

"I have no idea what the hell you are talking about," Tyki admitted with the most sarcastic tone he had in his arsenal. "But, I'm going to make the educated guess that you're trying to bother the Japanese gangster of a guitarist in their band?"

Tokusa's eyes widened a little, yet they returned to their original narrowed state once he shook his head in amusement. "Yeah, Yuu Kanda—"

"Don't mistake this for caring," the singer cut him off, opening his car door. He laughed at the almost affronted expression on the other man's face. "I mean, I _can't_ do you a favor—I believe in equality, creep."

"…" Tokusa was quiet for a moment, tapping his hip to some unheard beat. "Whaddaya want for it, then?" he asked, sighing with a sense of exasperation.

"You tell me," Tyki replied with a smirk, plopping behind the steering wheel of his Firebird. He shifted through his glove compartment and was delighted to find his cigarettes. "And, tell me quick—tomorrow will be here sooner than you think, freak." He slammed the car door closed and started the ignition with more force than needed.

He was getting just a little sick of encountering the friends and family of that goddamn guitarist.

* * *

"—_I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet—a pawn and a king!_" Lavi wailed into his can of orange soda, and he turned around to the rest of his friends. "C'mon everyone! Join in! _I've been up and down and over and out—and I know one thing!_"

"Each time I find myself," Allen said blandly, rolling his eyes as the redhead shook his head in exasperation. "Flat on my face."

"_I just pick! Myself! Up! And get! Back in the raaaace!_" Lavi was seriously not good at singing, especially because Lenalee was laughing at him and clapping like he was a monkey in a circus. But, whatever! He was having the time of his life! He did a little jig to show it, continuing to sing. "_That's life!_"

"Would you please shut the hell up?" Kanda demanded, cringing in anger. "My ears are bleeding, asshole."

Lavi stopped dancing, looking at him with an injured expresion. "Dude," he said. "I'm, like, trying to help Lenalady out here!"

The long-haired man cocked an eyebrow. "By rupturing her eardrums so she can't hear anything when she goes up?" he asked in a deadpan tone.

"Exactly! _That's liiiiife!_"

The competition for the singers would be in about an hour, so the troupe of musicians found themselves taking a break on a patch of grass some ways away from the majority of the masses. Lavi bought soda for them all, thank _god_, because the heat was a little less than sweltering, and Lenalee was feeling jittery again.

But, since Lavi was made of mostly water and excellence, he decided to take her mind off of things.

"_And I caaaan't deny it!_" he screeched, shaking his can like a heavy metal screamer with a microphone. "_Many times I thought'a cuttin' out—but my heart won't buy it!_"

"Like, my auditory senses won't buy it either," Lenalee commented, giggling. "You _suck_ major, dude!"

"_And if Missus Lee don't win this shit come here Julyyyyy!_" and then he started fucking up Frank Sinatra's lyrics. "_I'm gonna roll myself up…in a big baaaaall_—come on guys! It's the grand finale!" He sucked in an enormous amount of air, bringing the can close to his lips. "_Aaaand diiiiiiiiiiie! Myyyy, myyyy!_"

There was weak clapping from Allen and Lenalee as Lavi curtsied badly, and he even garnered some amused applause from the surronding people. "And that is how you sing properly," he concluded. "The end. Hey, Yuu, weren't you supposed to take us to a restaurant?"

"Your goddamn _mother_," Kanda snorted, stretching his arms against the gate he rested his back on. "That was just the midget tryin' to bounce from his Panamanian lover."

"Portuguese," Allen corrected.

"Puerto Rican. _Whatever_."

"And I wasn't trying to…_bounce_," the British boy argued weakly, grinning nervously. "I was just, um, _avoiding_ a possible situation that would have, err, ended badly in my favor."

"What?" Lavi snorted, plopping down on the grass. "_Rape_?"

"Precisely!"

Lenalee was still jealous of his luck with guys, despite how much he _didn't_ want it. "Why can't I pick up hot guys like you?" she bemoaned, sighing heavily. "Is it because of my high heels? Maybe it's because I can't hit really high notes—or are they _intimidated_?"

Allen stared at her. "Intimidated by _what_, exactly?" he asked carefully.

She rolled her eyes like she was talking to a moron. "Intimidated by my _awesome_," she replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Like, _dur_, Al."

"They are probably intimidated by your retarded brother," Kanda said with a shrug. "Maybe if you got rid of him, the guys would be all over you or _whatever_ you were looking for."

Lenalee furrowed her eyebrows, tapping her leg in thought. "…if I take out Komui," she muttered conspiratorially. "Then it'll be, like, _heaven_ from there…"

"Don't kill your brother," Allen said, pinching his nose. "Just…just _don't_ kill your brother. He builds robots, and we've _all_ seen _The Terminator_. Yes, Lavi, we _know_ you love Kyle Reese."

"Hey." Lavi put his hands up in a show of innocence, sticking out his tongue. "I'm just sayin'—best main character ever, dudes."

Kanda groaned—he didn't feel like hearing this shit at all today. "What song are you singing, Lenalee?" he asked gruffly, obviously trying to change the subject before Kyle Reese's ability as a main character was praised once more. "Like, I know it's not _Atomic_—and, wait, shit, do you even have a choice?"

Lenalee cocked a delicate eyebrow. "This is my first time battling other bands too," she pointed out, grinning. "I don't know _what_'ll happen—I just know I'm super hyped to see Fou is here! Now we have, like, _one_ person on our side!"

"And that Galmar gentleman was French," Allen added, giving her a thumb up from a gloved hand. "Which means he'll likely give you a good grade regardless."

"Wait, what does his Frenchitude have to do with that?" Lavi demanded, hoping to god that it wasn't for some deep-stemmed European hate.

The British boy smiled. "The French are well-known for being wishy-washy and rather flaky with their choices," he replied with so much ease one would think he was _not_ being an asshole.

Lavi was considering being offended. "_Hey,_ c'mon—I have some French in my fam', skeez'!" Okay, he didn't _know_ what he had in his family, actually. When his Grandpa showed him some sort of family tree, it was like a mass _rape_ of Europe with a few Hebrews thrown here and there.

"Then that explains so much," Allen replied with a shrug.

"Oh, _oh_, better question!" Lenalee exclaimed, gesticulating wildly in excitement. "Who do you guys think is the missing third judge? That's been bothering me for, like, _ever_!"

The smart-assed argument between Allen and Lavi died on their lips, as that actually _had_ been a bothersome point for some time now—especially because the judges panel was now all kinds of equal yet unfair.

Kanda twisted the tuning pegs of his guitar slowly. "It bothers me too," he admitted with a grumpy huff. "Like. What the fuck kind of band event or _whatever_ this is misses a judge?" He sniffed. "I bet it's some asshole who thinks he's better than the rest of America." Then, he took the dear sweet time out of his life to look at Allen pointedly.

Allen rolled his eyes. "I'm sure it is too," he replied, not wanting to argue like a child for the moment. He leaned back against the gate, his gloved hands resting against the grass. "And as intriguied as I am, there really is no use."

"Yeah," Lavi groused, scratching underneath his black headband. "Like, I am _so_ sure that _Noah's Ark_ knows what the hell is going on—but, do you think they're going to tell _us_ what we want to know?" He snorted. "I don't think so."

Lenalee sighed. "But I was _so_ curious," she lamented.

"Ch'_duh_ you were. I'm curious—and, like, I think I know everything!" the redhead exclaimed.

Kanda nodded. "Dear _God_ you do," he muttered.

Allen threw a weak kick at Lavi before an argument could begin, and he grinned when the red-haired man fell back, clutching his stomach overdramatically.

"I'm keeling, I'm keeling!" he cried, rolling on the grassy ground.

"Good job!" Lenalee enthused, giving him a thumb up for his performance.

Lavi laughed, holding his stomach as he looked up to the blue, cloudless Southern sky.

Despite all of the fun and buzz of excitement, something felt kind of _off_ about the whole event, and he had no idea what it could possibly be.

And, he hated to even _think_ it, but he was totally bothered now!

* * *

Lenalee was freaking out.

Well, she was freaking out…_inside_. After all, it'd be super lame to let the others catch on to how horribly _nervous_ she was.

_I'll gonna bomb it,_ she thought as she looked to the side at the sheer _multitude_ of people who were probably going to watch her fail in a few moments. _I'm gonna mess up—big time._

"Yo, Lenalady!" Lavi's familiar drawl was heard from a distance, and Lenalee turned back around to see her trio of boys wandering in her direction. Well, Lavi was walking, and the other two were further behind him and talking rather heatedly about something. _Those_ faggots.

She smiled, feeling a bit better. "Hey dudes, what's going on?" the young woman asked, crossing her arms.

Lavi grinned, placing a rough hand on her shoulder. "You nervous, Missus Lee?" he asked with that knowing look in his one good eye. "Don't try to pull one over me—I can tell when girls are nervous. It comes with the manual, see."

"Manual?" Lenalee repeated, cocking a eyebrow. The red-haired drummer just laughed with a shrug, but his hand stayed on her shoulder. She glanced at it minutely, swallowing excess saliva. That hand was kind of reassuring, actually—it was also a little unnerving. "Um. _Yeah_. I'm a little nervous."

"Which makes all kinds of sense," her older friend conceded, squeezing her shoulder. He smiled, and she believed that Lavi really did have the most charming smile in the entire band. "After all, you're seventeen and you've got these dreams, for sure."

"What—" Lenalee opened her mouth to ask what the hell was he talking about, but he made a quick zipping motion against his lips with his free hand, so she quieted down.

Lavi continued, "I'm just going to say this now before you choke," he explained. "So, yeah. You're young, stupid, and probably not nearly as experienced as the rest of those yuppies that'll be on stage."

Lenalee stared at him. That was so encouraging to the point she wanted to hide in a bathroom and sob until it was all over.

But the cruel ass was not finished. "They're gonna be more popular than you, Lenalee," Lavi stated with a wide grin. "People will probably cheer louder for them even if they _suck_, but that's okay." He looked into her mortified eyes, and huffed in exasperation. "But, hey, at least you've got this thing called confidence, right?"

"Is this where you were going with that whole depressing speech?" Lenalee asked drolly, her facial expression deadpan. "Because that was, like, _totally_ pointless."

"Not really," the redhead replied. "Since you probably needed all those crazy little fears addressed and shit before you had a conniption onstage. So, uh, your confidence. You believe in yourself, don't you?"

Lenalee narrowed her eyes, as she now found him suspicious. There was probably another life lesson hidden in her answer, so she had to be careful with her words.

"Generally," she replied slowly. To the side of her peripheral vision, she caught sight of Kanda and Allen behind Lavi, and waved at them in a short greeting. Allen waved back, smiling brightly, and jabbed the guitarist in the stomach so he would wave as well. _Too bad Kanda doesn't do niceties,_ she thought for a moment, sighing.

Lavi looked a little confused. "Not too smart on why you just sighed, but w'ever," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "Anyway—all we need from you is to believe in yourself. Yeah, it sounds like an afterschool special, but you're freakin' out to the point where, like, you get low self-esteem." He shook her a little, furrowing his eyebrows. "I mean, you're going against _Tyki Mikk_—we all hate his sexy ass, so at least feel confident enough that you could beat him."

_I still find him too good-looking to hate,_ Lenalee thought while she looked to the side in an effort to _not_ project her true feelings to the overly observant Lavi. "Um. _Yeah_." She rubbed her arm, glancing up again. "Sure. Let's…kick his ass." _After touching it, because that is definitely more important. _

"That's the spirit!" the drummer exclaimed, his expression bright. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his torso in a man-hug that kind of failed, since Lenalee was lacking some masculinity. "Don't you worry, Missus Lee—we, the lesser members of the Black Order, are rooting for _you_, and you only!" He rubbed her arm reassuringly, and Lenalee felt like hugging him and never letting go.

Allen placed a gloved hand on her free shoulder, and his lips were quirked into a smile more genuine than his average mien. "I can assure you that the competition cannot even _touch_ you—except for Mikk," and his smile faltered for, like, one second before it returned with twice the brightness. "But, you aren't a young man, so you should be able to leave his arse in the dust, savvy?"

"What the hell is a savvy?" Lenalee asked without thinking about it, but the way he said the word was almost obscenely random.

The British teenager blinked, bewildered. "Um, it means do you understand what I am trying to say to you," he explained, shrugging a bit awkwardly. "I'm sorry—I do suppose that I can get a little confusing."

Lenalee found herself laughing. "I usually get the dealio when you speak, Al," she replied, patting his scarred cheek lovingly. "But, sometimes you _can_ throw in a word or two that makes me all, '_whoa_, I actually _can't_ relate,' see."

He batted away her hand. "Well, just imagine how I feel," he muttered with a sniff, turning his head to the side.

Lavi chuckled, and Lenalee could feel his body move against her arm. "Europeans will complain about _anything_, amiright?" he said, and Allen made some obscure gesture with his hand that Lenalee never associated with him before. Lavi just laughed harder at the implication. "Oh, dude, you _don't even know_ how much I'd love to—"

A hand shot out from virtually _nowhere_ and smacked over the drummer's mouth, cutting off any impromptu lewd descriptions. "Shut your Jew mouth, faggot," Kanda said, pressing his hand tighter against his friend's lips. "Nobody wants to hear that shit."

"He's finally on to something," Allen agreed with a wide smile. "Because I definitely didn't."

Lenalee rolled her eyes and pushed Lavi away with her elbow. "Dude," she chided with a sigh. "Don't talk about your fagcapades while hugging me—it's totally lame and I don't want your boner poking me."

Lavi laughed a little nervously under Kanda's palm. "Um, yeah, that would suck," he conceded, removing the hand from his face. He kept his eye in the direction of the parking lot, and Allen was looking a little red himself. They seemed to be avoiding catching the others' gaze from Lenalee's personal observation.

"Incredibly so," the British boy added, smiling with a suspicious quirk.

The Chinese teenager eyed the two carefully. She was suspecting some _romantic tension_ or maybe a drunken affair.

_Wait,_ she thought with a quirked eyebrow. _Allen doesn't drink alcohol. I mean, he doesn't make a freakin' hobby out of getting drunk, and he doesn't get high either. This needs some Sherlock Holmes shit to happen._

"Hey—" she started, but was cut off by a nerve-wrecking screech that erupted from the speakers that surrounded them. "—_okay_, _ouch_. Like, totally. _Not_ ace."

"_All competitors for the second event, please report to the second stage,_" the pretentious voice of Sherman Camelot boomed through the air. "_As I already said—all competitors for the second part, get your asses to the second stage. You look like yuppies just standing about the crowd._" There was another short screech and it was quiet for a few seconds.

Lenalee worried her bottom lip. "Well, dudes," she began with a quirky smile. "I've gotta motor—see you later!"

"Break a leg, sweetheart!" Lavi insisted, patting her shoulder. "You've got _my_ vote for president."

Allen huffed but the edges of the skin surrounding his gray eyes crinkled in the unhurried semblance of joy. Yet, he made no move to hug her—the tight bastard. "I'll cheer you on," he said with a small smile that made his face as gorgeous as ever. "So, _please_, don't make me regret it."

The singer for the Black Order was already feeling the tears coming on. She turned to Kanda, wondering what _he_ was going to say.

Instead, he just held out one arm. "Hey," he called gruffly. "Get over here."

Lenalee had her arms around his torso in seconds. "I won't let you guys down, like seriously!" she said, her voice muffled in Kanda's shirt. She tightened her hold—there was a reason she and Kanda got along so well despite their insanely different personalities. "You're the best friends I ever could have asked for. Like, the _bomb_ dudes."

Kanda wriggled in her grip uncomfortably. "Uh, yeah," he replied slowly. "Um. Don't you need to be on that stage or whatever the shit was?"

That was obviously him trying to subtly tell her to 'get the fuck off of my hot bod', girl'. Lenalee released him reluctantly and grinned at his disgruntled expression.

"Wish me luck," she said finally, nodding. "'Cause I'm off."

* * *

"The rules are simple," some presumptuous little man who called himself 'Wisely' explained, smacking gum as he spoke and eyeing everyone like some insignificant bug. What was up with that bandana around his forehead, as well? He looked like the poser of all posers, so to speak. "So don't botch it up and try to blame it on some shit like complicated rules. Because they aren't, well, _complicated_."

Madarao wanted to throttle the _shit_ out of the guy, but he kept his exterior cool. It wouldn't do to get disqualified just because some douche was dying to, well, _die_.

He leaned further against the wall behind him, taking minute glances at his surroundings. It sure wasn't the Bronx, and _that_ was certain. The air was so clean it was choking him, and these people seemed to almost care about how you were doing. Nobody was dying and he could've almost considered leaving the car door unlocked. No gangs in sight, and the only drug he could see so far was weed.

Yeah—definitely not New York.

"You're going to sing one song a capella," Wisely was _still_ talking, the superficial asshole holding a sheet of paper in his hands as he spoke. He popped a bubble from his gum, and Madarao almost _shanked_ the fool. "And just one song. No restarts, no repeats, and no changes. If you fuck up, then that's just too bad."

There was a low murmur of disapproval within the contestants, but Wisely just ignored their complaints. "This judging is based on actual _judges_, not the biased opinions of pot-smoking _idiots_ in packs," he continued in a bored tone of voice. "So, yeah. If you fail but your little fans cheer like the devil, you still failed."

"You're not a very positive person, are you?" a young woman from somewhere within the group asked.

Wisely didn't even look up. "I am as optimistic as you are a virgin, Betty," he replied curtly. His gum popped again, and Madarao felt the violence coursing through his veins. "Anyway, those are the only rules. If you do lose, feel free to off yourself." And he walked away like nothing happened.

The people all around him burst into sound as soon as he was off the stage.

"What an ass," one man said grumpily. "Geez, like, all I wanted was an easy explanation—not a greetin' to _off_ myself!"

"Tell me about it," another man agreed.

Madarao rolled his eyes and stared off into the blue sky. He would've _loved_ to see Wisely talk like that in his neighborhood in the Bronx. Actually, he would've loved to see Wisely talk like that and then _survive_. That would've been ace.

"Tyki Mikk!" He heard the sound of what seemed to be a teenage girl off to his side. "This is, this is _great_! It didn't actually, like, _hit_ me that I'd be competing against actual _celebs_ until now. Just…_wow_."

He turned his amber eyes in the general direction of the voice, but not because he was interested or anything. There was nothing better to do in this slow Georgia town—but that was okay.

He could immediately recognize the pretentious stance of Tyki Mikk, the lead singer for _Noah's Ark_. Better than good looking by most standards, tall, lean, brown-skinned, and smoking a stick of cancer like nobody's business.

He was a prick, at least to Madarao and his fellow band members of _Third_. He used music for the money, not for the escape—and Madarao couldn't really stand that.

Though, the owner of that voice seemed to belong to a young woman of Asian descent. This was probably because Madarao, being of Mongolian ancestry himself, was pretty good at noticing other people related to the Far East.

She was dressed in a large red t-shirt that fell off one shoulder with a belt looped around her stomach. Besides that, she donned a pair of ripped blue jeans and red hi-topped Reeboks.

_Fashionista_, Madarao thought with no spite. She was a teenage girl who seemed to be really into pop culture, so she couldn't be blamed.

The two singers were having a conversation as it seemed, though, "Miss Ling," Tyki greeted carefully, his eyebrows furrowed. "Uh. How nice to see you again?"

"First of all it's _Lee_," the young woman corrected with a smile. "And secondly, we saw each other earlier. Y'know, during attempted rape number two hundred and thirty four of my buddy, Al?"

"…" Tyki exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. "Oh. _Sí_. I remember that." He repositioned the cigarette between his lips, cocking an eyebrow. "Well. Um." He seemed confused on her presence in front of him. "Err. Are you nervous?"

"Just a little," Lee said honestly, and Madarao found himself liking her personality the more she spoke. "But, hey, this is my first time doing something like this, so that's to be expected right?"

"Fer sure," Tyki agreed with heavy lidded eyes. A smirk curled the edges of his lips, and the man reached into his vest pocket slowly. "You want a cigarette? Not trying to imply anything, but whenever I'm nervous, a smoke is good for getting me down." He held the thin white stick of death within his long, dark fingers.

Madarao cocked an eyebrow. What the _hell_ was that ass trying to pull here?

Lee, though, looked at it with a sort of want, but stayed steadfast. "No thanks," she replied, waving her hand in dismissal. "I've never smoked before, but I know that I'll cough up a freakin' lung if I were to try one. And right before this competition? No way, Jose."

"That's the _Black Order_ for you," Tyki conceded, returning the cigarette to his rightful place. "Always trying to stay _honest_." He emphasized the word as though it were profane, and that was really _irritating_.

Then, Madarao's eyebrows flew up in surprise. Did the prick say what he _thought_ he said?

"Yo," he started seriously, pushing himself off the vertical surface and walking in the direction of the two other competitors. It was obvious that he got their attention by the time he came to a stop in front of them. "Um, hey." He stuck out his hand to Lee, but did not smile. Madarao wasn't a smiley kind of guy. "I'm Madarao. I'm the lead singa' for the band—"

"—_Third_, right?" Lee interjected, grabbing his hand in a firm shake. Madarao was a little amused, as her hand was soft and small within his callosed, rough hold. She seemed to be an odd girl, at least so far. "Yeah, my best friend likes a couple of your songs, and you were in Rolling Stone magazine once, right?" She grinned, releasing his hand. "I'm Lenalee. Lead singer for the band called the _Black Order_—yeah, it's a weird name."

"Kinda." Madarao nodded. Tyki looked almost slightly put off that he made no effort to greet him, but he honestly didn't care. "Well, I was lissenin' in on ya convahsation," he explained to Lenalee, trying to sound more _normal_ and less _New York_. "And th' _Black Ordah_ was mentioned."

Tyki hummed lowly, his eyes narrowed. "It was," he replied with a deceptive calm. An eyebrow was cocked in question. "What about it, sir?"

"Is this'a th' same _Black Ordah_ with'a, uh, a _Yuu Kanda_?" Madarao asked, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets. _Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes,_ he thought as stoically as was possible.

Lenalee blinked, surprised. "Oh, dude, you know Kanda?" she asked excitedly, her eyes smiling with as much exuberance as her lips. "That's _awesome_! Like, seriously, it's always fun to find people who know my friends!"

Madarao almost felt touched for a moment. "Yeah, me too."

* * *

Kanda was _not_ enjoying himself.

"This singing is making my ears, like, disintegrate," he said with barely veiled irritation. "And I kinda have this _thing_ where I actually _like_ my fucking _auditory senses_!"

The white-haired brat looked like he wanted to smack him. "This is how much I care, darling," he replied with a terse smile. The ends of his lips stretched further in a agitated mockery of a grin when Kanda stared at him with a bewildered gaze. "Of course, you can't see anything—which leads into the fact that I _do not_ care. _At all_."

The Japanese man scowled. "Shut your faggot mouth," he snapped, and crossed his arms as the singer on stage continued to wail through the speakers. When he looked to the side of his person, that goddamn drummer was jumping and shouting like this shit was actually _entertaining_.

God he hated that guy, sometimes.

"This shit is _excellent_!" Cyclops yelled at him, grinning. "Dude, you gotta hear this!"

"Bitch, the deal is that I _can_ hear this shit," Kanda snarled in response, and he shoved the redhead in an effort to relieve some of his irritation at the world. It didn't work, though. "Dammit, when the fuck is Lenalee supposed to sing? Because that is _all I care a-fuckin'-bout_."

The brat shrugged, but then winced as an empty can hit the side of his stupid face in all of the excitement. "This bloke is about the eighth contestant," he replied with his own barely veiled agitation. "And I am assured that there are more than forty competitors in this event. _Oh dear Lord my ears—_"

The shitty excuse of a singer finally trickled to a much welcomed silence, and he turned to the two judges with this expectant expression that Kanda just wanted to punch off his ugly face.

The French asshole was the first to open his mouth, "_C'était horrible_," he began curtly, leaning back in his seat with his fingers intertwined like the CEO of a very important company. "Your voice, it fluctuates so much that a cock stays more on tune. And those lyrics—_trés _shallow. What is this madness about wanting to love me because I stay with you? It is 1985—not 1964!"

Galmar, to Kanda's begrudging opinion, was a lot better at judging than one (The British Brat) would think. He wasn't very 'wishy-washy' or 'indecisive' at all—he knew _exactly_ what he was saying.

"I give you a five," Galmar concluded, lightly rubbing his moustache. "Hopefully it is well to make you rethink your _futur_."

The competitor gaped at the Frenchman, likely unable to believe how horribly he was just shot down. Kanda personally believed he deserved a grade somewhere in the negatives, but he'll take what he could get. As long as the skeezer didn't make it to tomorrow in this fucking waste of a music competition, then he was just fine.

The next judge was quick to open her mouth, and Kanda already knew that the guy lost this round _forever. _"My hearing is _fucked up_, dude," Fou commented rather amiably, a wide grin on her lips. For a petite woman, she had a mouth that almost made Kanda want to rethink his words. _Almost_. "Like, for cereal, man—I don't know what you were goin' for, but you sure as _hell_ did not get it. A four, and that's me bein' _nice_."

"I—" the singer began, his tanned face turning an ugly red. He could not finish, though, as Sherman was quick to snatch the microphone from his loose fingers.

He pat the singer's shoulder in a show of faux sympathy. "Better luck next time, Jake," he said into the microphone with a timber to his voice that betrayed his delight. "And to your band, as well." Jake gave him a last dirty look before he scurried off of the stage, his face red to his ears.

Sherman chuckled. "Wasn't that a treat for your ears?" he asked sarcastically, and rolled his eyes when the crowd reacted loudly anyway. "You guys will cheer for _anything_, it's ridiculous. All right, next we've got the singer from a little musical troupe you have probably never heard of!" The audience clapped and screamed and carried on, but Kanda just wanted this shit to _end_, and fast. "That's right, all the way from the coast of Virginia—"

"Oh my God, oh my God," was the litany from Cyclops, who was gripping the brat's shoulders like a lifeline. "It's our turn, dudes! Fuck _yeah_!"

"—the _Black Order_'s lead singer, a Miss Lenalee Ling!" Sherman's smile was quick to widen, and after a quick look to his left, he held out the microphone. "It's your turn to go, Miss Ling!"

Lenalee stepped onstage from his left, running her hands down her jeans. Kanda could tell the girl was nervous, and personally could not blame her.

She stood in front of the microphone, looking at Sherman instead of the audience. "It's actually Lenalee _Lee_," she started with a small smile. "But, hey. Don't mind me—I just thought you could read. Sorry about that, Mister Camelot."

The rise of laughter from the masses only accentuated Sherman's uplifted eyebrow, as well as the vaguely unimpressed twitch of his lips. "Of course," he replied smoothly, his voice reverberating in the microphone despite his distance from the device. "I'm sorry about that. I just found it very unlikely to have two _Lees_ in one name. Obviously, I was wrong."

"Well, probably." Lenalee shrugged sheepishly. "So…"

Kanda felt a small surge of pride within his chest as Sherman walked off of the stage with a short sniff in disdain. If she punched him in the face, then there was no telling _how_ happy he would be for her. And of course he did not think it was odd that he found pride in violence.

"Okay!" Lenalee took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Cracking her violet eyes open, she looked over the wide sea of humans in such an enclosed space. "Err—I'm Lenalee Lee, with the band called the _Black Order_."

"_Righteous_!" Cyclops screamed, causing the brat to wince and Kanda to punch him in the chest by instinct. "_I love you Lenalee!_"

Lenalee laughed, covering her mouth. "And that was my drummer, Lavi," she verified for the audience. "Anyway. I've got to quit with these intros—I'm going to sing a song that Lavi wrote, so hopefully you guys like it!"

The British punk elbowed Lavi in the stomach with a grin. "What's this ditty that you wrote, hmm?" he asked in a voice that was way too grainy for comfort.

Kanda clicked his tongue impatiently. "Maybe if you'd shut the fuck up, we could all find out," he replied rather nicely, he liked to think.

Obviously it wasn't that nice, because the kid just flipped him the finger for the second time that day. He needed to quit picking up on these American gestures if he knew what was good for him.

"…" She inhaled once more, and the noise surrounding her dimmed to a low hum. "_Don't be mistaken by that first impression,_" she sang into the microphone, her hand tight around the neck of the stand. "_And watch out for that in-no-cent expression!_"

"Huh," Cyclops hummed, resting his chin atop the white-haired head of the brat. "I didn't know she even _dug_ that song." But it was obvious he was pleased.

Kanda grunted, crossing his arms. "I can't even see why—the lyrics are _stupid_," he grumbled.

"As stupid as the lyrics are," the brat reasoned, smiling widely. "Lenalee's singing can cancel that out. After all, whenever have you Americans actually _listened_ to the lyrics of a good song?"

"You punk ass _bitch_—"

Lenalee was still singing. "_She's not what she seems_," she crooned, smiling widely. "_Don't wait in your dreams—'cause when it breaks away like a child, boy, this woman is wii-iild, so wii-iiild!_

"_She's on fire!_" She began to snap her fingers and sway to the instrumental sounds that only she could hear, because Kanda must've been deaf otherwise. "_And she burns through the night at the speed of liiight!_  
_She's on fire! With the heat of the beat right beneath her feet!  
She's on fire—and the name of the game is to fuel her flaaa-aame!_" Lenalee took in a large amount of air, closing her eyes. "_She's on fire, fire, fire, fire, fii-iiiire!_"

"I feel like this song could have a _smashing_ synthesizer sound," the punk commented, rubbing his chin in thought.

Kanda did not admit that he was kind of thinking the same thing, but with more guitars involved.

"_And so the dance with danger is your decision—but understand she's not quite like your vision!_" Lenalee sang, her eyes screwed shut. She must've been taking the Philippean asshole's advice seriously if she was singing this well without opening her eyes. "_I'm warnin' ya now!  
Be sure you know how—'cause she can take your heart like a child, and this woman is wiii-iiiild! So wii-iiild!_

"_She's on fire!_"

And she abruptly stopped singing.

Kanda's eyebrow was at his hairline before he could even realize it was moving.

"…I forgot the rest of the song," she admitted with a sheepish blush. "Because Lavi told me it was in the works, and I was like, 'dude, word?' and he was all 'che'yeah man, this shit is a bust!' But I went with it anyway because I really like that song! Like, it's totally trippendicular—and I have no freaking clue what it's about. For real, is it about racing or about falling in love with a woman who is not what she seems because she can spontaneously combust at any moment? By the way, props to my Physics teacher Mr. Frederico and to my B-F-F Allen who is a science genius!" She held a thumb up proudly to the audience in general, and the brat replied with his own gloved thumb's erecting.

Galmar waved a hand in dismissal, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand. "_Madam_ Lee," he began slowly. "Stop talking. _Cessez de parler._ I do understand that you are nervous and excited, but _please_. Talk _after_ the judging. Please." He straightened his posture in his seat, frowning deeply. "_Madam_ Lee, how long have you been singing?"

"Um." Lenalee blinked. "I guess like, uh, six years? I don't know—I did choir in church when I was younger, too."

"You are, ah, _trés bon_." The Frenchman nodded. "What I mean is—your voice, it has a peculiar rasp that is so _charming_ that I cannot help but enjoy listening to it. As I have also noticed, you speak loquaciously without this rasp, wear an obscene amount of bangles, and dance to music in your head."

Well, shit. Kanda scratched at his cheek, his eyebrows raised in question. He just made Lenalee seem like some sort of clinically insane bitch with mishaps in fashion. She only had mishaps in fashion, in his view.

"I can say that you are very, ah, _intéressant_," Galmar concluded. "I give you an eight."

"Yes!" Lenalee tried to secretly pump her fist at her side, but she was just too excited. Kanda rolled his eyes, but smirked at the happy gleam in her eyes. They weren't even that close to the stage—he could just see pretty well. "Um, I mean—thanks Mr. Galmar! I'm mosdef gonna take French Three next semester with you in my head!"

"Uh, _merci_." Galmar inclined in head in acceptance, but a smile never once did grace his lips. Kanda could respect that kind of guy—he wasn't a smiling kind of person himself. "Anyway! Next judge!"

And all the attention in the area shifted to the small woman next to Galmar.

Fou stared back at the Frenchman. "Do I have to shank a bitch?" she asked charmingly. "Because I'm not the type to be called out, Frenchie." She turned to Lenalee, grinning. "And I give you a nine."

"A _nine_?" Galmar repeated, an eyebrow cocked regally. "Hmm, _intéressant_."

"Hey, she can sing, and she can sing well with that 'rasp' or whatever—I liked those lyrics too." Fou smirked. "The words were tight in my book, and that's all I need."

Lenalee stood on the stage looking pretty awkward. "Oh," she said. "This is really awesome. Um, thank you guys so much—and thanks to you too, Lithonia, Georgia! You guys were, like, _mad rad_ sports today!" She returned the microphone to it's stand and quickly bent in a faux-curtsy. "Hope to see you all again tomorrow!" And she walked off towards the left of the stage, applause rising in volume through her exit.

Sherman Camelot, though, was quick to return to the stage with a fake smile more fitting for a television personality. Then, Kanda remembered that he _was_ a television personality, but continued to reject the notion of feeling stupid.

"Thank you, Miss Lee," he called after her, the curl to his lips almost sinister in nature. "It'll be excellent to see you in tomorrow's events, for sure!"

The audience screamed and voiced their approval loudly, but Kanda felt like if one more asshole cheered in his ears—he would be _very_ willing go to jail again.

"Anyway, we're moving on!" Sherman boomed into the microphone, his posture straight and nearly imposing. "Next, we've got the vocals from sappy sensati—Wisely, how…_wonderful_ to see you on stage as I'm doing my job." He seemed to cock an eyebrow at the small man who just waltzed up to him like this kind of shit was _normal_.

Wisely, or whatever his name was, scoffed loudly. "Shut the hell up," he replied with a wide smile. "And, rework your words—we got an issue, dimwit."

Kanda was getting a _really_ iffy feeling about this whole 'Battle of the Bands' thing, but he already knew that it was too late for that at this point.

Sherman covered the microphone with his tanned hand and listened attentively to whatever Wisely was saying, his facial expression changing only once from unimpressed to slightly bewildered.

"—so they won't be back," Wisely finished just as Sherman removed his hand from the microphone, and he nodded once. "Enjoy this crap." The short man walked away like he _owned_ the place.

Cyclops was also getting suspicious. "What the _fuck_ is up with this shit?" he asked jokingly, wrapping his arms around the kid's shoulders. "Like, there's something…_off_ about this whole situation."

"I can assure all of you that if I am getting grounded for life for no particular reason," the brat added, smiling widely. "I will _destroy_ your bloody wallet."

Kanda believed him, for the first time.

"Sorry about that," Sherman was back on the mic, smirking. "It seems we've come with a roadblock. The singer for _Straight Edge_ just puked and passed out in the back. Luckily, we can skip them because the band itself is _nowhere_ to be found." He shrugged. "How _unfortunate_."

"Oh _hell_ no," Kanda muttered, furrowing his eyebrows. "This shit is rigged more than fucking _OPEC_."

The brat had his mouth opened for a reply, but abruptly closed it. He opened it once more, but then closed it _again_.

"That…that was the most logical pun I have ever heard," he said, awed. "I think I just gained respect for you, Kanda."

Kanda didn't _need_ his goddamn respect. "Fuck you," he replied.

"Love you too, darling."

The long-haired host on stage cleared his throat melodramatically. "So, instead of _Straight Edge_, we're going to the next contestant!" he stated exuberantly. Moving his hand in a wide movement towards his left, Sherman grinned to the point of showing his disturbingly perfect teeth. "From New York City, we've got the lead singer from the hard rock sensation, _Third_—"

That goddamn drummer's breath hitched in his throat, and he tried to subtly look in Kanda's direction to probably gauge his reaction.

Kanda, personally, wasn't going to make any rash decisions until he was sure that the singer was _not_ who he was thinking it to be.

"—_Madarao_!"

The people went _wild_.

"I will kill the _shit_ out of you," he growled in reference to Cyclops, grabbing the collar of that _stupid_ wide-necked tee and dragging the man towards him.

The brat cocked an eyebrow. "What the bloody hell is your problem?" he hissed with his favorite 'What the _fuck_' smile. "You look barmy—put Lavi down, would you?"

Kanda ignored him. "You knew he'd be here before we went on this fucking trip!" he snarled. The rage that was coursing through his blood was _insane_, and he really just wanted to punch the _shit_ out of something. "You set me up, _didn't you_?!"

Cyclops—_Lavi_—put up his hands, grinning without a touch of embarrassment. "I didn't set you up to _nothin_'," he replied, looking to the side he could actually see for the sake of emphasizing the fact that they were causing a crowd. "They called my house two days ago, like I told you—I needed my fuckin' trap set, and Goushi was down with grabbing it for me. Calm down, Yuu."

_Calm down_? "You _fucking_ douchebag—"

Madarao had finally walked onto the stage, and Kanda found his words caught in his Adam's apple once he got a look at that asshole.

Tall, lean muscle, and ramrod straight posture—as Kanda noticed the familiar aspects first.

Aqua blue hair, stoic expression, and narrowed brown eyes. The more recent details to his person.

He opened his mouth, and it was _definitely_ him. "Yo," he started, his baritone revebrating through the speakers. "I'm Madarao—I'm with'a _Third_, from New Yawk. More like th' Bronx, but whateva'."

"That is _seriously_ fucking _Madarao_—" Kanda hissed to himself, releasing Lavi's shirt and bringing the hand up to rub at his eyebrows. "…I cannot _believe_ this shit."

Lavi was looking at him with a serious gaze in that one eye, and the brat had his arms crossed.

So, Kanda steeled himself and pivoted on his heel. "Peace out," he shouted over all of the noise. "I'm goin' to smoke a joint." He did _not_ need this kind of stress today_. _

The Japanese man made it was far as four people before someone grabbed his shoulder rather roughly to not know him.

"What the fuck?" he snapped, turning around.

Average height, skinny body, and those goddamn narrowed to the point of slit hazel eyes. "_Tokusa_," Kanda spoke with as much animosity as he could possibly stuff into his voice. "Why the hell're you touching me?"

Tokusa smiled, his thin lips stretching on his face. "Kanda, _man_," he crooned, his eyes wider than usual. "What'ta sahprise t' see ya he'ah!" He cocked an eyebrow. "Whas'sa mattah, Kanda? You ain't happy t' see me?"

"I wish you were dead," Kanda said very sincerely. "No, seriously. Why the fuck are those phalanges you call fingers on my goddamn shoulder?"

"Why the fuck have _you_ been avoidin' us, Kanda?" Tokusa retorted pleasantly. "Shit, man, you think you'se all _great_ and shit 'cause you ain't in the Bronx no more? Can't drop a line to your old folks, man?"

Kanda felt his lips purse into a thin line. "I'm gonna smoke a joint," he repeated loudly. "So. _Yeah_." He shrugged the hand off his shoulder almost as roughly as Tokusa grabbed it, and stalked through the crowds.

Goddamn this event.

* * *

To say that Allen was terribly confused was an _understatement_.

In fact, it was probably safe to say that it was the understatement of the bloody year for his case.

"What just happened?" he asked Lavi, if only because the redhead looked like he was the most connected to this odd case of Kanda and his reaction to the blue-haired New York bloke onstage. "Because I feel like I just watched every episode of _What's Happening!!_ and yet I still don't know who is on crack and who is pregnant."

Lavi stared at him. "…_What_?" he asked, his face perplexed.

"Nevermind." Allen cleared his throat, a fist over his mouth. "_Anyway_. What just happened?"

"Oh. Yeah. _That_." The one-eyed drummer scratched his arm, as it was probably molested by mosquitos. Allen took precautions and rubbed his body with repellant before leaving the hotel. "It's just Yuu's old fam'—nothin' special."

"Nothing special?" Allen repeated, his arms crossed in disbelief. "If by _nothing special_ you mean _very important_! Kanda went _bonkers_ on you over that fellow, and you want to tell me that it's _nothing special_?"

Lavi placed a hand on his shoulder, his lips set in a small frown. "Al, baby, sweetheart," he began calmly. "I'm not the one to tell you shit. Yuu always goes batshit on me anyway—this time I kind of deserved it, though."

"_Why_? I am horribly curious, Lavi!"

The redhead squeezed his shoulder and looked up at the stage. Madarao was singing, but Allen couldn't pay attention to the lyrics when some _shite_ was going down in Kanda's life again. If it helped in any way, though—he believed Madarao to have a surprisingly nice voice for his atrocious speech.

Lavi's attention was back to him. "Let's ditch this joint," he said, wrapping his arm around Allen's shoulder in a way that was more intimate than friendly, but Allen was probably looking too much into it. "But I can't tell you shit, all right?" He began walking, leading the younger teenager through the people in the same direction as Kanda.

"Can I ask questions?" Allen asked, looking into Lavi's eye. "As in, you answer as vaguely as possible?"

"Um." Lavi hummed, blinking. "Yeah, sure. I think I can deal."

"Smashing!" The English teenager grinned, but yelped a bit as an elbow bumped into his ribs. These crowds were way too thick for comfort, in his opinion. "Okay—who is the bloke? I mean, the singer for this band, _Third_."

"Dude, that's way too, like, direct." Lavi rubbed Allen's arm through his shirt, grinning. "Let's try this again."

The British boy furrowed his eyebrows. "Err, okay then, I'd suppose," he murmured to himself, racking his mind for a question to satisfy his itching curiosity. "Where are you from?"

"Me?" the redhead asked, his brow raised in question. Allen nodded, awaiting at least one answer. "Um, _okay_. I'm from Richmond, or something. What does this have to do with Yuu?"

"It's moreover about Kanda," Allen corrected. "For instance, when did you meet him?" They finally reached the parking lot at this point, and the sun was starting to slip further towards the west.

Lavi pulled at his white tee, sticking out his tongue. "Dude, I told you this way back," he replied, huffing. "I had seventh grade and up with him—I'll admit that I didn't know the bro before that."

"Why?"

"Guy didn't live in Hampton all his life, Brit." Lavi paused. "Whoa, are you a fuckin' _psychiatrist_?"

Allen rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Regardless of simple human psychology, let's continue," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "If he didn't live in Virginia, then where _did_ he live?"

"C'_mon_ Al…" Lavi whined. "You know I can't do this. Me an' Yuu are, like, _best friends forever_. At least until I die or he goes to a maximum security prison. Whichever one comes first."

"Did he live in New York?"

"Hell yeah." The drummer smirked, shoving his shoulder playfully. "You must've been listenin' to Madarao, even though that accent is, like, excellent and whack at the same time. Shit, if only you heard Yuu in the beginning of seventh grade—your ears would _bleed_."

"This event is actually making sure of that," Allen deadpanned. "As it feels like I am more fond of the music when there are instruments to override the pure _bad_ of the vocals." He shuddered minutely, but stayed steadfast. "Anyway, he's not from Japan?"

"He's _Japanese_, not from Japan." Lavi laughed, delighted. "But, the hell if I know—for all my knowledge, he could've been living in Japan until he was, like, ten, but just speaks perfect English and shit. Well, near perfect."

Allen nodded, even though he started to tune the older teenager out once he started to stray from the subject. _New York?_ He mused in his mind, rubbing his clean chin. _Madarao is from the Bronx, Kanda knows Madarao—Kanda lived in the Bronx for some time in his life! He also apparently used to have a thick accent, which means he probably lived there for more than a few years. Kanda never mentions his past besides post his arrival to Virginia and his uncle_—"My Lord, it all makes sense now!" he exclaimed, smacking his forehead in disbelief.

Lavi jumped, surprised at the sudden shout. "What the fuck?" he asked.

"Kanda is from New York!" Allen explained, ignoring the bland expression on his friend's face. "Which explains _so much_ about him if the stories about New Yorkians are true in any way, shape, or form."

"What?"

"The violent tendencies," the white-haired teenager continued, pacing around Lavi in a close circle. "The ridiculous amount of profanity, the disregard for authority, the _drugs_, the unnatural attention to my own accent—Kanda is from _New York_!"

Lavi opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dude," he started slowly. "Have you been watching _The Warriors_?"

Allen stared at him. "What does that have to do with my theory?" he asked calmly. He had never once seen _The Warriors_, but apparently it was a really mad movie that everyone loved. Including Cross, which is probably the reason he will never watch it.

"Uh." The redhead shrugged. "Nevermind. Yo, Al, listen though—don't talk to Yuu about—"

"About what?" a gruff baritone asked from behind Allen, and the white-haired boy turned around to see Kanda standing behind him with a bored expression and reeking of canabis. "What're _you_ two dweebs talking about?"

Lavi laughed a high-pitched sound that was almost painful to listen to. "Dude, _nothing_," he assured with a wide grin, and gave Allen a particular _look_. "We were just chattin' about our plans for tonight. So, what were you saying about that blowjob?"

Allen's eyebrows _flew_ to his hairline. "Abso-bloody-lutely _nothing_!" he yelped, feeling his face burning in either embarrassment or…embarrassment. Yes.

To the side of Kanda, a rather familiar man chuckled heartily at their antics. "Wicked nice," he praised Lavi, inclining his head to show his approval. "Just about made my day, Lavi. How's it workin' out for ya?"

Lavi squinted his one eye, almost as though he was struggling to see a mirage. "Oh, shit _Tokusa_," he cried, jumping in excitement. "Dude, totally didn't see you there! How's it been, man?"

"Great," Tokusa replied, smiling. Allen straightened his posture—he recognized the man now! That was the creep who pierced his ear! "Even betta' now that me an' old Kanda he'ah have had this _awesome_ convo."

"I'm going to stab the _blood_ out of you," Kanda announced sincerely. "And I'll be _damned_ if I go to your funeral."

"Course ya will," Tokusa assured him, snickering. Those slanted, hazel eyes roved away from Lavi and finally caught sight of Allen, who was smiling back with as much forced cheer as was possible. "If it isn't Allen Walker—how're ya doin'?" He stepped closer, if only to scrutinize his left ear. "And how is that earring doin'? You been takin' care of it, Allen Walker?"

"Err, yes?"

"Great." He grinned, exposing his curved, white teeth. "Yo, I actually got somethin' for ya—come by'a our hotel t' pick it up."

_Please don't be something weird_. "Okay, yes. I'll be sure to do that."

Tokusa nodded in pleasure and Kanda looked around the parking lot with a gleam of paranoia in his eye.

"Yo, where's Madarao?" he asked Tokusa, whom of which rolled his eyes. "Don't roll your _fucking_ eyes at me, asshole."

"Whaddaya expect from me?" the light-haired man retorted. "You actin' like I can just _call_ him or somethin' while he's onstage and shit. _I can't_."

"Shit." Kanda pat his pants pockets minutely, likely searching for the marijuana that he smoked already. "I didn't sign up for this shit, Tokusa."

"Well you got it anyway, so shut the fuck up," Tokusa said pleasantly. "Enjoy th' mini reunion, Kanda."

Kanda choked back a snarl that wanted to rip through his mouth, so he simply stayed silent for the remainder of the seconds that passed.

Allen found his curiosity rekindled—and he found himself hating the fact that he would likely never get any answers.

But, he looked towards the blue sky that was near blinding in hue. Perhaps he could ask Kanda himself tomorrow?

**

* * *

FANFICTION DOT NET, YOU'RE DOING TOO MUCH**  
Give me back my custom line-breaks you freak

Okay, I've got to stop the chapter here. Luckily, the next chapter is already in the works, so yeah. No more long waits! (Btw, because I had to get my line-breaks back, I took the time and effort out of my life and went back through chapters 1-12 and made AWESOME corrections and changes. It's not necessary, but maybe you can go back and reread…?) (I'll be doing the same to chapters 13-24 over the weekened.)

Excuses, excuses…oh, yeah! :D So, I, the Kaza, am going to graduate high school in about two weeks. I am trying to master the didgeridoo. I'm also preparing for my new college life at ST JOHN'S WOO HOO YEAH GO RED STORM. So, as sorry as I am about the wait, I feel like I could not help the lost time. Oh, and I had like temporary writer's cockblock in occurance to this fic for, like, three weeks. That's when I wrote the Allenalee fic that apparently has marked me as a traitor. Huh. Keeping one's options open is…_betrayal_? Well, shit, wish someone could've told me that BEFORE I found the popular DGM pairings not as exciting as they once were.

This is obviously the 'Main and Foil Character Development and Exposition Chapter' that every long fanfic must have. We are SO FUCKING COOL YO

Anyway! :D WHO HAD A VAGUE FEELING THAT KANDA WAS NOT FROM HAMPTON? Chapter 5 makes so much more sense now, doesn't it? :) Btw, realize that from the 1970s to the early 90s, New York City had one of the highest crime rates in the country—while it has been significantly lowered in recent times, it is imperitive that you understand the enviornment of these new characters and of Kanda's unknown past. I will not be pulling a Hoshino btw and dedicate the next fifteen billion chapters to KANDA'S DEPRESSING PAST BAAAWWWW man shut the fuck up and man up you Japanese pussy

POLL TIEMZ!  
Who do you think is the missing third judge? I mean, they'll be introduced next chapter, but still.  
a. Cross  
b. Marie  
c. Miranda  
d. Anita  
e. NONE OF THE ABOVE

Lol I just took my AP Literature exam today so sorry. Oh and today is my prom! I'm gonna have fun, I like to think! Emiggax thinks otherwise, but _whatever_.

The song by Lenalee was 'She's On Fire' from the Grand Theft Auto III soundtrack on Flashback FM. That station is generally just songs from Scarface, but they are 80s and they are quite good so THERE YE GO


	36. Cool It Now

_THIRTY-SIX_

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give Madarao of _Third_ one more row of applause!" Sherman shouted into the microphone, and Madarao stood off to the side awkwardly as the legions of humans cheered and clapped with rising volume. A few of them called him out by name, and one particular woman clawed fruitlessly at the stage.

_Oh boy_, he thought with a thin press of his lips. _This might be a problem._

He believed this because, after a while, one might start to realize the customs in the lives of the rich and famous. As, really, too much love actually could lead to be a bad thing after a while, in Madarao's wise opinion.

He walked towards the back of the stage in the same direction Lenalee Lee left earlier; hoping at the very least there was some sort of secret pathway for the contestants to safely escape the throes of humans called an audience.

Unfortunately, all he got was that Wisely douchebag.

"Madarao…no last name?" the small man spoke aloud, looking at a sheet of paper. He glanced up at Madarao's face, a sneer on his thin lips. "That's a little…_flaky_, you don't think?"

"I don't think much 'bout my name," Madarao replied blandly, tapping his foot against the floor impatiently. "And it'd prob'ly do ya some good to quit thinkin' 'bout my name too—I mean, let's get _real_ here, Smartly."

"That's _Wisely_, smartass," Wisely clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in clear disdain, and he marked off something on the paper on his clipboard. "Well, congratulations—despite your obvious struggle with the English language as a whole, you and your two-bit band have advanced to tomorrow's events."

The singer hummed, nodding in acknowledgment. "That's good," he replied vaguely, and he looked up at the sky. The sun was falling through the clouds, and the world was darkening at a rate so slow it was almost calming.

This was Georgia—beautiful in its own right, he'd guess.

Wisely stared at him. "Yo, idiot," he snapped, waving the clipboard in his face. Madarao jumped a bit to attention, immediately looking down at the other man. "Get outta here—there are other people in this competition too. Go mug some hippies somewhere, ya crook."

Madarao shrugged, casually flipping the man the middle finger. "I'll be seein' ya lat'ah then," he retorted with a nod, and sauntered past the man with his posture straight. He wasn't the type of guy to get pissy because some short excuse of a man had issues with people his height or taller.

Now, he reminded himself. It was time to find his band, and from there—the _Black Order_. He wandered off the stage with this goal in mind, and walked in some aimless direction that seemed to be going opposite of the audience. Then again, anything opposite the crowd was never destined to be good, so Madarao pivoted on his heel and was met with an eyeful of _manchest_.

"Um." He trailed his eyes up slowly, only to be greeted with the scowling face of the drummer for _Third_. "Goushi. How'zit goin'?"

Goushi, a large, thick man with pasty white skin and a confusing excuse of a Mohawk, grunted in disdain. "Good," he answered curtly in his deep, grainy voice that kinda reminded him of Schwarznegger in that robot movie. He looked towards the side at the fence, sneering. "Came t' meet up wit'cha. So, uh, le's get outta he'ah."

"Ya don't even gotta tell me twice, man," Madarao replied, and he walked behind Goushi as the man led him through the throes of people. The drummer had more uses than one, the band members frequently commented—and human shield was probably near the top of that list. "How'd I do, in ya own thoughts?"

The drummer hummed minutely, shoving through more people in the thick crowd. "All right, I guess," he replied with a shrug. "I mean, ya weren't _tryin'_ or any shit like that, were ya? 'Cause, ya know, if tha's th' case—ya fuckin' sucked."

Madarao furrowed his eyebrows, wondering why he attracted so many people with such unsavory attitudes. Tokusa was a total smartass, Goushi was just an asshole, Kiredori was kind of _weird_, and Kanda…well, he liked to think he didn't even need to finish that thought. At least, until he found a word for Extreme Douche Bag.

"Thanks," he replied blandly, and narrowly avoided a dirty-looking man that clawed at his arm. "Yo, with th' seriousness, can't you mow fasta'? I'm gettin' molested back he'ah!"

"Ah, shut ya trap," Goushi rumbled, and they were slamming by people at twice the speed as before. While he was sure that Sherman or the other douchebag camera crewmembers he called assistants would not approve of this kind of crowd surfing, Madarao found that watching a floored black man nearly get crowd stomped was almost funny.

And, finally, after a good minute or two of ruining lives, they made it pass the ragged chain-link fence that surrounded the fields. Goushi huffed a little, flexing his meaty arms, while Madarao shook his short, bluish hair.

"Alright, where's Tokusa?" he asked the drummer, who stared down at him with a look so irritated it was almost belittling to see.

Goushi sneered, his thick upper lip curling unattractively. "Why'tha fuck would I know?" he retorted, punching Madarao on the bicep like he was the same size as the beast. "Shit man, we split th' fuck up 'bout th' time you were'a almost done wit'cha song."

"Why'd ya do that?"

"Kiredori wanted a weina' or somethin'," the drummer admitted with a shrug. "'Kusa said that he 'saw someone famila',' and I wanted t' make sure ya didn't die or some shit like that. 'Cause that would be dank, asshole."

"Hell yeah," Madarao agreed. He looked down at his black combat boots, already edged with the notorious Southern red dirt at the soles, and decided that maybe Nancy had a point, and that these boots really _were_ made for walking. "Let's go this way."

Goushi was, by the way, a Pretty Cool Douche. He was a complete asshole in the best sense of the word, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Out of everybody in that goddamn band, Goushi rarely questioned his decisions.

("With th' seriousness, let's do'a concert naked."

"Whathafuck? You hittin' that bad shit again?"

"No way, José—I don't got'tha boobs for that shit."

"…Ya don't even got _boobs_, numbnuts!"

"Shut'thafuck up!"

"Yeah, sure. I'm in.")

So they were walking towards some patch of trees offset by a bunch of lowrise buildings, and they were strolling like they had all the time in the world.

Well, they might as well have. Madarao had this big thing about thinking while walking, and he could think a hell of a lot for a public high school graduate.

"What song do ya think we can do next time?" he asked his drummer of a friend, and Goushi looked at him minutely before humming some old pop tune.

"I don't even fuckin' know," he replied after a moment, and they stopped in front of a simple chainlink fence that stretched in front of them to the sides for what seemed to be miles. "Maybe that Cowboy shit you an' Kiredori like so much?"

Madarao cocked an eyebrow. "_Modoi'n Cowboy_?" he said slowly. The title was actually 'Modern Cowboy,' and was written when the normally apathetic frontman was feeling particularly philosophical. It was a nifty kind of song—the kind of shit you could sing when you had nothing but a guitar and some free time. "Huh. That'll be real interestin' man. I think we should try it, like with th' seriousness."

"Yeah."

"I agree."

Madarao blinked. "Yo, did'ya say that?" he asked Goushi, who was turning around faster than one could say 'What the _fuck_,' and he followed suit momentarily.

Lee stood in front of them, her arms behind her back and this peculiar grin on her face. It was the kind of smirk that'll put you on edge in the South Bronx, but Madarao stayed calm because, hey, this was Georgia. The only danger was probably racism or something.

"Yo, hey, whassup!" she greeted, trying her hand at the stereotypical Brooklyn accent. Goushi rolled his eyes with no restraint, but Madarao thought it was pretty cute. She held out her hand, smiling amicably. "Name's Lee. Lenalee Lee—singa' fo' the _Black Ordah_!"

"Good fer you," Goushi replied sarcastically, but shook her hand anyway. "Whatterya doin' over he'ah, instead'a bein' wit'cha band?"

Lee chuckled, hiding her hands behind her back again. "Well, the thing is—wait, I mean, yo man, I got _lo'ahst_ afta' the whole singin' thing, so I was jus' hangin' around out he'ah until I saw you'se two crooks walkin' by—"

"Quit with'a fake accent!" Goushi moaned, scratching his head. "Ya makin' me wanna laugh at how stupid ya sound!"

"I thought she sounded kinda like you," Madarao commented offhandedly, and took the punch to his arm with nary a wince. "But, with th' seriousness—you can't find'ja band?"

"Did you say 'with the seriousness'?" Lee asked, abruptly dropping the bad accent. A smile lit up her face, and she tapped her chin in thought. "That's really what's up! I've got to start saying that—with the seriousness!"

Now Madarao had to roll his eyes—but, to be completely honest, Lenalee Lee was really fucking charming. There was something about how she seemed so obviously enthralled with pop culture and the _Ins_ and _Outs_ of her generation that made her the go-to kind of girl a lot of people would appreciate.

"Yeah, _with th' seriousness_," he shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "You haven't found th' _Black Ordah_ in ten minutes? You think they even lookin' for ya?"

Lee laughed like he was terribly ignorant when it came to the affairs of the _Black Order_. "If you know our guitarist like _I_ know our guitarist, the answer is a big, fat _no_," she replied, shaking her head. "And he's _probably_ trying to get high right now, while Al and Red take turns beefing at him."

Madarao almost nodded, but then refrained from doing so after a quick thought. _It's been three years,_ he mused, looking toward the sky. _Do I know their guitarist like they know their guitarist? Do I know him like _at all_ really?_

"Hmm…" he hummed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Whack, I guess." The Mongolian man rubbed his chin, as hairless as it was. "So, what? You wanna hang out with us lame'ah's or somethin'?"

"He's th' lame'ah, jus' so ya know," Goushi stated, pointing at Madarao with a thick finger. "I'm cooler than a fuckin' freezah—can ya relate?"

"Totally," Lee replied, nodding seriously. But, there was still that quirky smile on her face, and she trotted between the two men like it was her place to be there all the while. "But, che'yeah, I think I'll take you up on your offer of hangin' out. Either of you guys knows somewhere to eat?"

Madarao and Goushi shared a particular look of disbelief. "We'ah from th' Apple," Madarao replied, cocking an eyebrow. "This is th' foi'st time I've ever even stepped int'a Ge-or-gee-ah." He enunciated the word slowly, or otherwise it'd come out sounding like 'George-Gerah.' Whatever _that_ was.

"The same goes for me!" Lee said, rolling her eyes. "I mean, the new to Georgia part—not the New York thing, 'cause I'm from Hampton, see. So, I'm not with any places to eat either, but I am like mad hungry. You guys aren't stupid hungry either? I mean, singing in front of all those people—pretty active, dude!"

"I guess so," Madarao replied, although he kind of had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. While, yes, he was hungry, he also sang in front of people all the time and never felt like he was losing weight. "I think I rememba' seein' a Mick-dick somewhe'ah down the street. You got th' keys, Goushi? 'Cause I think I got th' cash."

Goushi patted down his large denim pants, and huffed when he pulled a silver ring of keys from a pocket. "We good," he said, jingling the keys. He looked down at Lee, an eyebrow raised in question. "So. Mick-dicks, Lee?"

"If I even knew what a Mick-dicks was, I'd still say yeah." Lee replied. She glanced off to the side, and Madarao followed her view until he caught sight of the setting sun. The day was pretty much over, and yet the night hadn't even begun. "Well—I know where the hotel is. If those boys are _anything_, they are kinda smart." She paused. "I think."

"Do any'a them smoke weed?" Goushi asked.

"Uh, like, two?"

"They ain't _that_ smart, then."

"Dude, shut up! I'm trying this new thing where I _have faith_ in my friends."

Madarao snorted, walking in some random direction where he assumed the van to be. "Where the hell do ya sign up fer that?" he asked. "Because I think I'd wanna try it too, considerin' th' fact that all my friends're assholes."

* * *

It really sucked when you lit up so much weed it was hard to get high.

At least, it sucked for Kanda, but he believed that he couldn't be blamed. Regardless of the fact that he smoked a lot of weed—so much, in fact, it was a wonder his eyes weren't always red.

"Calm down, idiot," the brat—Albert, maybe?—scolded, motioning towards his shaky hands and faltering lighter. "You can't light up when you're shaking like a dog! I mean really, put your hand down."

Kanda glanced at him minutely, already tuning him out. Shit, the British could talk Laverne De Fazio into submission, for Christ's sake. He returned his attention to the long, wrapped roach in between his index and thumb, and glared at it with all the anger he could muster.

Then, he grunted and leaned back. He wasn't even that angry anymore—just kind of dead inside. He stuck the unlit joint in his mouth, and closed his eyes. Maybe he'll just pretend that he's high off his ass, and then he might even wake up in Virginia two months ago.

_Fat chance,_ he thought, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Ugh, fuck this."

There was a familiar flick from his side somewhere, and then the admittedly bitter taste of marijuana in his mouth. "Huh," he opened his eyes, and found the end of his joint lit up like Christmas Day. Excellent. "Fuckin' A, kid. Guess you do come in useful."

The kid in question simply rolled his eyes. "Thank you Allen," he mocked, crossing his arms with a huff. "For assisting me in the process of losing brain cells—at least, the remaining few I've got."

"Pot doesn't make you dumb," Kanda retorted, rolling his eyes because the brat clearly had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. "It can fuck with your short term memory sometimes, sure, but there aren't any long lasting effects to the average person's smartitude. Tetrahydrocannabinol—THC, in case you're just that stupid ya'self, kid—is actually pretty useful for gettin' rid of a headache or some other painful shit." Pausing, he took a long drag, and then continued to speak with smoke pouring from his mouth, "And, mary doesn't make you smart—but it doesn't make you stupid either, kid."

Alfred (or…whatever his name was) blinked, his mouth slightly open in what seemed to be shock. "…" he shook his head, laughing in disbelief. "I hate to say it, but you win, Kanda. For the first time in all the days we've known each other, you truly win."

Kanda lazily upturned his middle finger, wisps of smoke escaping from his lips. "Yo, for cereal though—what the fuck are we doing here, kid?" he asked, looking at his young associate with a frown.

The kid cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I thought we were sitting in the back of the van for the sheer sake of _you_ getting high off your ass while Lavi attempted to find Lenalee," he replied in that sarcastic way that really irritated the shit out of Kanda. He knew it wasn't cool to get pissed over something he should be used to, but, well. Recent events just reminded him how much he hates smartasses.

"No, skeezer," he snapped, flicking the ashy tip of the joint off to the side. "I mean _here_—like, why the fuck aren't you in school? Why the fuck aren't I at work? Just, goddammmit, why the fuck are we _here_, right _now_? Why Georgia? Why today?"

"You're asking a lot of questions with no set answers, Andy," Alfred replied calmly, grinning like the dork he was. "Especially things concerning your…_work_, or whatever you call it."

"I've got a fuckin' job, kid—and shut the fuck up with that 'Andy' shit!" Kanda shuddered as he remembered the psychotic bitch from that one show of theirs. The show that…well, could be considered the leading reason to why he's here right now, smoking weed and talking to a kid that doesn't understand what he's trying to say. "That's nothin' like my name, punk."

"Whatever you say, Andy Ol' Boy," the kid said, shrugging. He crossed his legs, tapping his red-dusted black Converse shoe to some unheard beat against the air. "And I honestly ask myself the same question, if anything."

"Huh." Kanda inhaled, the back of his tongue tingling with the taste of pot. He blew the smoke in thick circles towards the sky, where the sun was finally disappearing over the horizon.

The brat leaned back against his elbows, legs still crossed and foot still tapping. "I don't disobey Cross often for generally clear reasons," he explained, looking up at Kanda with heavy-lidded grey eyes. "He's…somewhat more sensitive than expected, and I've been punished before. I tried to escape from him once some years ago—worst bloody mistake of my life, I'll tell you now." He laughed. "Couldn't sit for a week after that boxing! Well, I'd suppose it'd be called a spank here, but it surely felt like I was in a professional fight."

"You make him seem like the most irresponsible ass this side of Jupiter, brat," Kanda commented, somewhat interested in the kid's relationship with his clinically insane uncle. Seriously, that motherfucker threw a _hammer_ at his nephew—who the fuck _does that_?

The white-haired boy shrugged once more, smiling. "Well, he did leave me in a house by myself for five months with enough money to last me three weeks. He sent money twice, and then admitted to blowing the rest on slappers and pints," he said like it was no big deal. "So, yeah, he's a bit irresponsible. But surely he means well—otherwise I wouldn't feel so bad about being here, as you said."

Kanda hummed, looking back towards the sky. "He's the craziest bunk I've seen yet," he replied, but then paused. "Well, maybe third-craziest. I dunno." He flicked the ashes once more, a tiny bit of high starting to set in.

"Yeah, he's bonkers." There was a small stretch of silence, the kind that fills the air slowly with thoughts and breathing. It's more of thinking though—thinking of what was just said, of what could've been said, of what should be said, or of what needs to be said.

The long-haired man stuck the bud back in his mouth, frowning. "Daisya's the main reason I smoke pot," he spoke aloud, and felt the brat's eyes on him immediately. "I mean, the reason I started and shit."

The kid didn't speak in response, and Kanda was actually starting to find that the brat was almost okay to be around when he wasn't being a smartass or talking in general.

"Cyclops and I started doin' this shit about the same time, in like ninth grade," he continued, speaking around the joint between his lips. "Daisya, though—he'd been doin' pot since, like…ever. I dunno. He's always been _that guy_—the guy who was always high and shit. I really hated that part about him. Then I became _that guy_—or at least, kinda." He huffed. "Cyclops used to smoke twice as much as me, and only get half as high."

"Not very surprising, actually," Alejandro (shit, what the fuck was this kid's name) stated, grinning. "But, who am I to say?"

Kanda snorted. "No one, little asshole," he replied. "Anyway, like I was sayin'—we started about the same time. Daisya had a Hookah pipe—weird shit, because he never had any sheesha or whatever that crap is. He would smoke pot out the window with that pipe, kid—sneaky as hell, old man never found out. I did though—I mean, you find out shit like this in a three bedroom house. Especially if you shared a room with a burnout like him." He scowled at the mere thought of it, and how stupid he felt Tiedoll was all these years.

"So, what happened?"

"Cyclops happened," the Japanese teenager replied, groaning at the memory. "The guy, he _looks_ like a fuckin' moron, but he's smarter than Hollywood fuckin' Squares kid. Believe me." He took a long drag, and exhaled through his nose. "Took one look at the Hookah and was all, 'dude, your bro tokes pot through a Hookah? Excellent!' Daisya and me both stared at him, like how the fuck did he know? And Cyclops rolled his eye and shit, all 'there's a dime big under your history book dude, and who has a Hookah in their house for reasons that _aren't_ smoking'."

The kid blinked, obviously confused about something. "So, wait, had Lavi smoked before this? How did he know these things?" he asked.

"The hell if I know, but he _said_ he never smoked before." Kanda shook his head with a shrug, because he couldn't read minds back then. He still can't, but _whatever_. "Daisya asked us if we wanted to try, and I said fuck no. Cyclops, though, was a curious dickweed. He bothered me about doin' the shit with him for an hour, and Daisya was all 'dude, it's not gonna hurt you, and you probably won't even get a good high off this cheap shit,' and I was getting annoyed as hell. I couldn't escape—that was my fuckin' room and I wasn't gonna move for anyone."

"You smoked to get them off your arse?"

It…it sounded kind of bad when someone put it that way. "Yeah. _Yeah_, I kinda did." He frowned. "And the shit _was_ cheap—I upgraded myself to the better pot you could get from the seniors, and Cyclops mooched off my bags for a long time. Really, Daisya fuckin' _sucked_ as a role model, kid." Kanda scowled deeply, clenching his fist as rage coursed through his blood again. "And I hated half the shit he did or said. He never took anything seriously, he was always high, and he stole my fuckin' Slinky once." He realized that at this rate he was bitching for the sake of bitching, but he couldn't stop it. "He came to a few of the band's practices—before you showed up, doy—and would talk so much shit it was weird he didn't have brown teeth."

"Kanda," the brat put a bare hand on his arm, one not enclosed by the cold texture of leather, but true pale skin against his own. "It's alright."

Kanda looked over at the kid, who just shrugged back with a quirky smile. "Why the fuck am I here?" he asked one more time, his voice weaker than he ever remembered. "Why is _Third_ here? Why is _Noah's Ark_ here? Why is Daisya in the fuckin' hospital, and why am I lit up like it doesn't even matter?" He leaned his cheek against his open palm, the joint in his other hand. "Kid, just, what the fuck."

"I can't say why you're here, Kanda," the brat—whatever his name was—replied, patting his arm. "Nor can I explain my own iffy presence—but we're here now." He grinned, a mouth full of perfect white teeth and perfectly wide lips. "And when you get back, I think Daisya would love to hear about our success, hmm?"

_Our success_. Well, that was an optimistic-as-fuck way of looking at it. Kanda shook his head again, his loose strands of hair swinging through the air wildly. "Huh." He inhaled the smoke more, closing his eyes against the darkening sky. "Hey, Albert—"

"Allen." The brat rolled his eyes like Kanda was somehow an idiot, but that was previously disproven so there was no reason he could be looking like that.

"Allen." He held the joint towards the kid. "Wanna toke?"

Allen—finally got the kid's name right—cocked an eyebrow, looking at the dub carefully. "Are you bloody serious?" he asked calmly.

"It's a yeah or a no, punk," Kanda replied, jiggling the joint. He sneered, leaning back. "So, what's it gonna be kid? This shit ain't cheap, I'll tell ya now."

Allen stared at it for one more minute, before gently taking the joint from between his fingers. "Sure," he replied with a short grimace. "I'll…_try_."

Kanda nodded, and returned his attention to the sky as he knew it. The clouds were pinker the further one's vision went, while the clouds closest were an almost depressing grey. It was a transition worth viewing, in Kanda's opinion.

A series of hacking coughs interrupted his thoughts, and he _almost_ smiled in glee. "Can't handle it, dork?" he crooned, turning around to the struggling teenager.

"Oh shut up!" Allen wheezed, hitting his chest with a closed fist. The bud was pinched tightly between his red, wrinkled fingers. "I dearly apologize for not being as skilled in the art of being a _pothead_ as yourself, darling!"

"Ch'yeah right, dweeb—just admit you can't handle it, and we can keep on livin' with the knowledge that, hey, _I'm right_. Y'know, like always."

"If by _always_ you mean once in a blue moon, then of course you're always right," the kid retorted, his voice delightfully raspy. Kanda smirked, and the kid flipped his middle finger at him for like the third time that day. "Ugh! This taste is somehow worst than chai tea!"

Kanda shrugged. "You get used to it, kid."

* * *

Lavi was lost—like, seriously lost.

Who the fuck gets lost in Georgia anyhow? Well, other than the misled white people in horror films, but they don't count towards the grand scheme of things.

"Okay," he spoke out loud, rubbing his lightly stubble-brushed chin. He hadn't shaved in a few days, so it was feeling kind of like some sort of sign, or some crazy shit like that. Maybe. "Lenalee left the stage—that much is true. Then again, Madarao's also gone. Everyone is missin', and I left Al with Yuu and oh god what kind of friend am I?" He raked his hands through his hair worriedly, looking around wildly. "And where the fuck am I? The fuck is a Covington Highway?"

He was not used to being this confused, honestly.

Lavi looked around, trying to find something that looked vaguely familiar so he could at least make it back to the hotel.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he cursed, walking aimlessly towards a Waffle House. He was putting his hope in the possibility of someone in there knowing how to get back to…wherever that hotel was.

So, with a grim expression, he stepped into the Waffle House with a depressingly happy jingle of a bell. He searched the place minutely, and realized that there were a _lot_ of black people in this particular restaurant, which automatically made him feel awkward. _Fuck_ his life, man.

"Get outta the way, kid—you'se blockin' our way," a gruff, terribly familiar baritone snapped from behind the redhead, and he turned around slowly.

_Just my luck_, he thought with a sad frown. Not only is he lost in the metro Atlanta area, but then God decided it was totally cool to throw the merry band of _Noah's_ fucking _Ark_ sans Tyki Mikk and Rhode Camelot in the mix. This has been a wonderful evening so far, he must say sarcastically.

"Oi, it's the red Septic," David said in surprise, a twisted grin on his thin lips. "Fancy meetin' ya here, Yank—what, you've a hankerin' fer a waffle?"

"Or'a pancake?" Jasdero added, and then he narrowly dodged the swipe at his head. "The hell is yer issue, Davie?"

David snorted, hands on his hips. "Doezit look like we're in an IHOP, twit? Come off it, Jazzy—why would they sell'a pancake in'na Waffle Home?"

"Now, how was I s'pose t' know that?"

Skin shook his head. "Shuddup—both'a ya, please," he rumbled, placing a large hand on both of their heads, pushing them away from the other like a disgruntled father. His golden eyes fell on Lavi, who was really just watching in confusion at this rate. "Whassup Red?" He flashed a rather scary smile, and Lavi weakly returned it.

"Hey dudes and dudettes," he replied, scratching the back of his head nervously. "What brings you to this fine part'a town? I mean, other than hunger?"

"I'm a fan'na Waffle House," Skin admitted with a grin, shaking the two teenagers under his hold. "And Jasdavi were bein' kids again—so, hey, why not treat'em like kids and force'em to my favorite restaurant and all'a that? 'Sides, Lulu's from Atlanta herself—she's always been at'ta Waffle House."

Lulu Bell, the incredibly beautiful but silent bass guitarist of Noah's Ark, inclined her head with a smile. "It's a fan favorite," she replied simply.

"Whoa," was all Lavi could say. Firstly, _Noah's Ark_ has never been this nice to him in all the time they've come into contact, and secondly—holy shit _Lulu Bell_ _just talked to him_. "Um. Well, that's ace, I'd guess."

"What'tabout you, kid?" the large drummer asked, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. "I don't see ya tiny bandies, so I know you ain't here for family fun or some shit like that."

Tiny bandies—that sounded adorable as hell. Lavi made a mental note to add that to his list of nicknames that everyone needs to have. "Dude, I'll be completely honest," he replied, laughing awkwardly. "I lost my singer…or somethin' like that."

The members of the rival band shared a look of distinct confusion, and Lavi grinned with a lackadaisical shrug.

Lulu was the first to look back at him, and she tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. "How about you eat with us, and we can talk about it then?" she offered, quirking a small smile.

Lavi felt his heart melt. This really was shaping up to be a great evening! "Uh, sure!" he agreed, smiling widely. "Thanks, dudes."

"And dudettes," Lulu added with a wink. It was a good thing the members of Noah's Ark couldn't read minds, or else they'd just get an epic novel's worth of adoration and freaking the fuck out. "So, let's take a seat?"

"Yeah, definitely," Lavi said, sure that the dopiest look ever was etched onto his face.

_Sorry Lenalee—give me a little more time, please._

"So, wait, yer tellin' us that ya somehow lost yer little Chinky singa' just'a minute after she finished singin'?" David asked, a strip of bacon clenched between his teeth as he spoke.

Lavi paused in his chewing of a delicious waffle. "Dude, don't call her that," he said disapprovingly. "Her name's Lenalee, and she loves you guys and ya music too—she doesn't go around describing you as some Irish wannabe Yazoo synth player, ass."

"Ey, I'm from Yorkshire—!" the black-haired synthesist started with a growl, but a clearing of the throat interrupted his rant in advance.

"Red's gotta point, Dave," Skin conceded, and David looked down at his plate with a scowl. "'Sides, that whole world war shit? It's over and done with—we can't keep bringing up names and shit from way back when. It just ain't cool, kid."

David huffed. "S'ry," he muttered. "I'm jus' used t' callin' everyone, well, whatever they are. 'Cept fa' black people," he added in a loud tone of voice, glancing around with a nervous face.

Lavi was pleased. "It's all good, man," he replied. "Just as long'a ya don't keep calling her that, we're good. But, yeah, I've got no i-fuckin'-dea where she went—and then I left Al with Yuu and I'm real scared that I'm gonna come back to a van full'a blood and gore and shit." He stuffed his mouth with eggs, wondering why he'd never come to this wonderful place before. Wasn't there one in Virginia? At least, he thought there was.

This required further research.

Lulu hummed, daintily swallowing the food in her mouth before speaking, "Allen Walker, right?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked. "The synthesist to the _Black Order_?"

"Uh, yeah!" Lavi nodded. "He's a real trip of a guy, I love'em!" He was pretty sure that they were going to assume his 'love' to be brother-like, and he was okay with that.

"Uh huh," Lulu nodded, smirking. She worked on cutting her waffle into more tiny pieces, and continued talking. "Why do you think your synthesist and guitarist are going to fight in your absence, Lavi?"

The one-eyed man blinked, fork frozen in his fingers. "Well, that's…that's just what they do, I guess," he replied uncertainly. Why _was_ he so sure? It's not like they'd even gone to blows before.

"Because I think they're probably getting along more than you know," she finished with that same little smirk.

Lavi was confused. "Huh?"

"Don't think too hard'a 'boutit," Skin waved a hand in dismissal, dumping more sugary syrup atop his waffle. Lavi had no idea what the man should fear more: diabetes, or cavities. "She's good fer talkin' circles 'round ya. But, anyway. How's this shit goin' fer ya, kid? You think ya gotta chance at, hmm, _winnin_'?" He snickered a little, like there was a joke floating in the air that Lavi didn't know.

The redhead furrowed his eyebrows. "Yo, I actually _do_ think we gotta chance at winnin', dude," he countered, a grin on his lips. "Did you _not_ hear our first performance? Most excellent thing you've listened to yet and ya can't say it's not!"

"The shite was pretty good," Jasdero agreed easily, somehow managing to eat like a regular human being despite the thread coursing through his lips. "I mean, there's a li'l somethin' 'bout yer singa'—her voice? It's a trip t' hear it, I'd say!"

"I know, right? She's fuckin' amazing!" Lavi insisted, grinning like an idiot. "There's no one else I know with lungs like her's—she's oneuvakind, can you relate?"

Skin shrugged. "Eh, I think Tyki's a great fuckin' singer myself," he replied. "So, it's all accordin' t' matter. But Lee is pretty fuckin' good, I'll give ya that."

Lavi could take that, he supposed. It was all really a matter of bias, and he personally thought that Lenalee kicked everyone's ass—vocally, at least. Maybe physically, since now he remembered that time where Al told him that Lenalee punched Mikk in the stomach.

That sounds, like, _crazy awesome_. Why wasn't he there when it happened, again?

"Yo, kid, ya zonin' out on us?" Skin snapped his fingers, eyebrows raised. "C'mon, we ain't _that_ borin'—are we?"

"Nah," Lavi replied, laughing. He had another bite of waffle, and then swallowed after a minimum of three chews. Hey, after extended amount of contact with Allen, one can start to pick up on a few culinary habits. "But, hey, can I ask you guy's'a question?"

David shrugged. "Go fer it, mate," he said.

"Uh, do you know where the hell my hotel is?"

* * *

Lenalee laughed in delight as she fished through her jean pockets in order to find the hotel key. "Dude, no, funniest moment yet—we tickled Kanda, like for serious," she said in the process, giggling. "He gets pissed at _Allen_ of all people, and then plays the guitar like super loud to piss him off. I'm tellin' ya—too funny, dude!"

Madarao shook his head. "How th' fuck you'd get so close t' _tickle_ th' guy?" he asked in a sort of raspy, deep voice unique to himself. Lenalee found that she rather liked the lead singer of _Third_ (and apparent long lost friend of Kanda), as well as his drummer of a companion. "Tha's insane, Lee."

"Fuck yeah," Goushi agreed. "Kanda wasn't th' nicest guy around last time we saw each otha'—fucka' wouldn't even let'tus shake 'is hand!"

"Huh, really?" Lenalee replied, an eyebrow cocked. She made a small sound of rejoicing when she actually found the key, and proceeded to unlock the door with a grin. "So, wait, where do you guys know Kanda from, again?"

"…" Madarao shrugged. "New York. He's an ol' friend. Or, at least, he use'ta be."

"What do you mean?"

"He—" But the door swung open, accidentally interrupting his words. Lenalee flashed an apologetic smile at the cool man, who was looking through the door with an expression of distinct disbelief.

She grinned. "Sorry Madarao, but what were you saying?"

Madarao didn't answer her directly. "You sonuva bitch," he muttered darkly, and he squared his shoulders with a stiffness that belied his irritation. "You fuckin' Jap sonuva bitch—I can't believe it."

Lenalee, confused as ever, frowned. "Dude, what?" she asked, following his line of vision into their hotel room. She opened her mouth, and then shut it again with an audible snap.

"_You're trying to plant a seed in my brain,_" Sam, from the show _Cheers,_ accused from the television set. Diane scoffed, and replied with a simple, "_Don't be silly. I know of nothing that grows in solid rock._" Then, studio laughter—like always.

Allen cracked up at that, a hand to his forehead as he leaned against the couch and kicked his legs against the air. "S-solid rock! That is amazing!" he commented in his mirth.

Kanda nudged his side. "Dude, shut the fuck up, the commercials are comin' on," he snapped, and Allen straightened up at that. The two males stared at the television, utterly enraptured in what seemed to be an advertisement for Cool Whip.

Lenalee didn't know if the apocalypse came or if _Cheers_ is just that enrapturing of a show. Like, it brings _everyone_ together, and all that jazz.

Then, she ended up sniffing the air a little, and almost immediately gagged. "Aw, dude, keep the pot outside, would'ja?" she scolded, her hands on her hips. Lenalee walked into the room, Madarao and Goushi on her heels, and came to a halt in front of the inattentive duo. "Guys, hey! You listening?" She clapped her hands loudly for emphasis.

That was successful in catching their attention. Allen jumped with a gasp, which in turn made Kanda glare weakly at the younger boy. They both looked up at Lenalee as though it hadn't come to their attention that she was still alive in general, and a smile broke across Allen's face.

"Lenalee!" he cried, standing up exuberantly. "Why, it's been less than a dick year since I've last gandered upon ya!" He held open his arms and brought her into a sudden, yet uncomfortable, hug. "I've missed ya—god, I've missed ya. Where've ya been, m'dear?"

"Uh, McDonald's—" Lenalee attempted to answer, but found that being smothered by a guy was not nearly as fun as she thought it would be. She did, however, realize that Allen Walker reeked of a particular substance that she was used to smelling on everyone _but_ him. "Wait, dude, hold up!" She pushed him away roughly, and held the other teen at arm's length. She watched him carefully. "Are, are you _high_?"

Allen's eyes widened, and he laughed in delight. "Of course not, Lenalee!" he replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "Now, why would'ja think that? I mean really—do I _look_ high to you?"

"Uh, _yeah_?" His eyes were rimmed with red, his movements were awfully delayed, and there's no way _anyone_ could smell that thickly of marijuana without having partaken in it themselves. "There's this thing about smoke, Al—it kinda sticks."

The British teenager blinked and cocked his head in question. "I've no idea what the bloody hell that means!" he exclaimed, and turned around. "Let's just get back to the telly—I think _CHiPs_ is to come on after this."

"No, no, and _no_, dude!" Lenalee grabbed the back of his shirt as tightly as she could, and tugged the slightly larger teenage boy towards their shared suite. "You're comin' with me!"

"Riiiicky—"

Didn't Allen know that quoting 'I Love Lucy' was only going to enforce the fact that he's high off his ass? Probably not, considering how _stupid_ he must be right now.

She finally managed to drag Allen into the suite, and looked out the door with a suspicious scowl. She found Madarao and Goushi were standing over Kanda, who looked up at Madarao in particular with the single most disgusted expression she'd ever seen on his face.

But, Lenalee couldn't deal with Kanda's drama right now—she had a fifteen-year-old Englishman with a possible drug problem to take care of.

"Allen," she started, pivoting on her heel with what she hoped was an appropriately pinched expression. "What the fuck."

Allen jumped, frowning. "My word, Lenalee—you just—"

"I know what I said, dork," she countered, rolling her eyes. "So, spill. What the fuck, dude?"

"I've no idea what you mean," he insisted, sitting on the bed and crossing his legs. Well, he attempted to cross his legs once, and then failed so terribly that the retry was destined to be better than _whatever_ that was. Lenalee shook her head, shamed. "Why must you assume I'm pissed—"

"Pissed is the _last_ thing I think you are, Allen," Lenalee replied, rolling her eyes. "In fact, I'm feelin' that you are perfectly happy right now. _Perfectly happy_."

Allen furrowed his eyebrows and rubbed his temple. "Wait. Oh, _oh_," he said, laughing. "No, no, Lenalee—I mean that why do you think I'm _pissed_, as in drunk! It's what they say in…that place that I am from."

"The UK?"

"Precisely!"

"Dude, I thought you were better than this," the Chinese girl admitted, sitting next to him with a huff. Allen looked up at the ceiling, likely looking for dragons in all of his magical thoughts. "Allen. Come on, I'm your friend." She patted his shoulder. "Why?"

"I don't want to be here, Lenalee."

She paused, eyes wide. "What?"

Allen shook his head, those lengthy white locks swinging with the motion. "I just, I," he stammered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, I don't want to be _here_, and, I. It's that, there, I'm tired and. And I'm not making any sense."

_None at fucking all_, Lenalee thought, but refrained from speaking such. "What do you mean by 'here,'" she instead asked, cocking her head in question. "Do you mean, like, this Battle? Or, like, America in general?"

"America in general," he said, relieved that she somehow got what he was trying to say. "It's because, well. I—I had a talk with Kanda today."

"Obviously."

"No—no! We had a real talk!" Allen insisted, a smile on his lips as he gesticulated to encourage his point. "I've had chats with the bloke before—as in, the hospital, and the days after. But, he spoke to me first—_me_, Lenalee! It was, it was incredible!"

Lenalee cocked an eyebrow. That does sound pretty incredible, in all actuality. "But, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Have you ever seen a man cry?" Allen asked.

And she balked. "You're not telling me that—"

"What? No, Kanda didn't cry," because that sounded like the coming of the Antichrist by itself. "I mean, um." He shook his head, his speech obviously affected by his stupid decision of the day. "Have you ever seen your brother cry?"

Lenalee opened her mouth, and then paused. She's seen him cry once—and, well, that was so far back it almost felt like a dream. "Uh, once?"

"And wasn't it the most devastating thing you could've ever seen?"

"…" _That's why it felt like a dream._ "I, I guess. But, why?"

Allen jiggled his foot against the air, his chin resting atop an upturned palm. "My father cried before his death," he replied quietly, a smile on his face. "In all those days, months, and years, I'd always found him to be the strongest man I knew—I still do, actually. But, in those last minutes, he wept like a newborn child."

Lenalee did not _want_ to feel awkward, but somehow she felt like this was not the kind of thing she wanted to hear from Allen. The boy always seemed so nonchalant and stubborn, and she kind of wanted to keep that image of him for a little more time.

As well, she did not feel that she deserved to hear this.

So, she kept silent.

"I watched him die," he continued, gazing at the blank wall adjacent to the door. "I stood there as the Devil himself tore into my father with fire and agony. I couldn't even bring myself to look away, let alone cry. I suppose that my dad did it for me, instead."

He turned to look at his female friend, and Lenalee caught his gaze with a nervous smile. Then, the English boy shook his head—his oddly white-haired head that was somehow it was appropriate and fit perfectly for Allen Walker.

"When a love one dies, the first thing everyone expects from you is tears," he said with a shrug. "For me, it's the last thing I could do. He's dead—what more can I cry about? It's a waste of energy, and a waste of time. I love my dad to the ends of this cruel world, but I never once cried for him. I think about him all the time though…sometimes, I want to cry." Allen fiddled with a frayed edge of his ripped jeans. "Kanda, though, distracts himself from thinking in gen."

"Kanda?" Lenalee forgot he was related to the conversation somehow, and straightened her posture. "I mean, why'd you say that?"

Allen shrugged, grinning. "I don't know Kanda's life—I haven't the slightest idea of what he's gone through, what he fears, his aspirations or any of those fruitless things," he replied. "But, I do know that he distracts himself. He told me today, he told me that pot doesn't make you stupid—but he also said it doesn't make you smarter, either."

"That's…true."

"And, really, I'm so easily distracted by everything right now, Lenalee," Allen admitted. "There's a light in the closet—it's been on this entire time, and I want to just stand up and turn it off. I'm talking and talking, and I'm still talking your ears off likely—but I can't help but think about everything else right now. I like your shoes—I've been meaning to tell you this the whole time as well."

Lenalee frowned. "Err, thank you?"

"Oh, but I still make no sense to you," the fifteen-year-old said sadly, shaking his head once more. "Marijuana doesn't make me think any less than I did three hours ago—which, by the way, is a general estimation—but I stop thinking so much about things that bother me and focus on the menial things. Kanda, he's no…_pothead_, as Americans put it, but he's done this many, many times. It's blatant that he just doesn't want to think."

"But, why?" Lenalee asked, amazed at how incredibly insightful Allen could be with a little help. "I mean, I know you don't know much about him, but what could be so bad that he doesn't wanna think?"

Allen shrugged. "I don't know," he replied simply. "And we may never find out. Until then, we just look out for the bloke—he's got a heart, but just doesn't know how to use it."

* * *

All the high that Kanda had worked so hard to get?

Well, it disappeared in record time at the sight of Madarao—no last name.

Even though Goushi's hulking frame loomed behind the blue-haired man, Kanda found that he couldn't stop glaring at the Mongolian asshole first and foremost. Madarao just rolled his eyes, and rolled back his shoulders in a way so infinitely familiar that Kanda's entire body tensed.

"Yo," Madarao greeted, and he held out a hand. "What's up, Yuu?"

"Don't call me that," Kanda replied with a tic in his brow. "And it's nothin' new, kid. What th' fuck're you doin' here?" The accent was starting to slip in his anger, and Madarao looked amused about it if anything. Well, in the way Madarao can look amused—he took 'indifferent' to a whole new level of emotionless facial expressions. He was like a classic Grecian statue—just, his hair wasn't nearly as great.

"C'mon man, do I _look_ like I need'a excuse t' see _you_?" he retorted, his hand steadfast in waiting to be shook. "Don't be an ass, Yuu—shake m' fuckin' hand, kid."

Kanda bit back a growl and placed his hand slowly within the grip of Madarao's. And, almost as expected, the man roughly pulled him off the couch and to the stance of standing.

_Oh fuck you, man_. "Fuck you," he snarled, snatching his hand back.

Madarao looked him over, an eyebrow cocked. "Ya got taller, kid," he appraised, having to lean back a bit to see his hairline. "Filled out much betta', too. Goushi, whaddaya think?"

Goushi, who was as hideous and grotesque as ever, stared him down. "Kid grew up well," he agreed, clicking his tongue in disdain. "Kinda makes me sad that we missed th' days, man."

"Ya heard that, Yuu?" Madarao said, huffing. "We missed out on'na 'lot. C'mon kid—what gives?"

Kanda prided himself on not being easily cornered—much like how he prided himself on being able to play 'Stairway to Heaven' on his guitar at twice the speed of the original, how he prided himself on cutting his own hair and still have a distinct lack of split ends, or how he prided himself on being able to say that he hasn't lost a single physical fight yet.

So, he just sat back down with the most apathetic expression he had in his arsenal, and Madarao cocked an eyebrow.

"Hey," the older man called. "You ignorin' me, kid?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Kanda replied. "Yo, move out'ta the way—I think CHiPs is about to come on and shit."

Madarao turned to the wooden television set, and looked back at him oddly. "I don't think so, Yuu," he stated, and bent over to turn off the television. The man straightened up, turning to his with crossed arms. "Kid, you've got a lot'ta explainin' t' do. We've been lookin' for ya for, how long? _Yee'ahs?_"

"Why?" Kanda asked, an eyebrow cocked. "You're a grown-ass man, skeezer. The fuck're you doin' lookin' for a sweet kid like me?"

Goushi looked horrified, and actually took a step back. "Did…did you just describe ya'self as'a _sweet kid_?" he demanded. Kanda shrugged, because even though he knew it was the last thing to be true about him, he didn't deny anything unless absolutely necessary. "You've changed then, kid—and _none of it_ was fo' th' betta'."

"Whaddaya talkin' about?" the Japanese man retorted, snorting in disdain. "None of it was for the betta'? Dude, you're outta your head—I've graduated _high school_ with the second highest GPA of th' year, I've gotta job, an apartment, a car, and there's _no fucking way_ you can tell me I'm not good looking." He pointed at his face for emphasis, an eyebrow raised in challenge. "But, if you can—go for it, dork."

"…" Goushi shrugged. "I stand corrected—you've changed, kid. And it looks like you're one'a th' most stuck up little bastah'ds this side'a th' fuckin' Hudson. It's almost like bein' on Staten Island."

That almost made Kanda wince. If Staten Island was the same as it was back in '78, then it really was the epitome of Yuppie Society. As well, to claim that he, Yuu Kanda of Lower Manhattan, was like being in the snootiest place in the world—well, it was an acute jab.

"You try'na insult me?" he demanded, ready to stand if need be.

"Yeah, jus' a little bit."

Madarao snorted, shoving Goushi in the side none-too-gently. "Quit bein' an ass fo' a minute so I can finish talkin'!" he said sternly, and the large man turned away with an affronted huff. The Mongolian man returned his attention to Kanda, who honestly was not anticipating his next words at all. "You gotta come back, kid."

"No."

"It ain't a question, asshole," Madarao rolled his eyes. "It's been four yee'ahs. Ye'ahs. _Years_. It's been four years, kid—ya not th' only one sufferin', little joi'k."

Kanda didn't believe he was the only one suffering in any way, shape or form, but this didn't mean he was going to cede to these douche bags. "You don't unda'stand, Madarao," he hissed, his hand clenching the couch arm tightly. "That kinda shit is outside my life now—so fuck you, fuck New York, and—"

"Fuck Alma?" Madarao finished, and for the first time in a long time, the words were choked in Kanda's throat.

The two men stared at each other spitefully, both unmoving and yet poised for attack. Kanda guessed that to bystanders, they looked like animals in the wild ready to kill for the sake of survival.

If only the world were that kind.

And, for the second time since him and Allen came into the room, the door opened—and the spell was broken like glass.

"—right on, thanks dudes," the ever familiar voice of Cyclops, fuck, _Lavi_, sounded through the door, and the Jew walked in backwards waving at…_someone_ out there. "We'll be sure t' kick all your asses, so peace!" He turned around with a bright smile, ready to tell some lame-ass epic story. "Yo, guys, you would not belie—whoa shit awkward."

Goushi nodded solemnly. "Tha's only th' half'a it, Red," he said.

Lavi was frozen at the doorway, obviously unsure if he should leave the room in its entirety or try to sneak to his suite.

Madarao sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Look, Yuu, kid," he started, ignoring the low growl from Kanda. "We didn't come t' this 'Battle of the Bands' shit t' join in on ya little pity party, or t' slap some sense int'a ya like I'd _really_ want to. We, _Third_, came t' this shit to win." He quirked a small smirk on his lips, cocking his head. "But, this is'sa great time t' advise ya, kid. So, after we win—head on back to the City. You won't regret it."

Goushi nodded. "Nice seein' ya again, kid," he said, and the two members of _Third_ simply left the room, bypassing the quiet drummer with simple nods.

Lavi watched them go with wide eyes, and turned back to Kanda with a weak smile.

"Wanna use my suite tonight?"

Kanda didn't even argue.

* * *

September 7th, 1985.

When Allen woke up that bleary, gray morning, the only thing he could think about was the overwhelming _hunger_ he felt coursing through his body.

_I am so bloody hungry,_ he thought with wide eyes, gripping at his stomach weakly. _I am near to DETERIORATING I am so hungry. Dear God, why?_

His stomach let out a demonic sounding growl that left even him feeling a little frightened, and Lenalee turned to him with bleary eyes and a frown.

"Dude," she grumbled. "What the hell was _that_ sound?"

Allen looked back at her, his face surely pinched in all of his discomfort. "My stomach," he admitted. "Lenalee, I am so hungry right now I can barely believe it. _Why am I so hungry_?"

Lenalee just continued to stare at him, blinking once or twice.

And a slow laughter bubbled from her throat. She turned over in the bed, her shaking back to Allen as she giggled like Steve Martin just said something especially funny.

Her amusement, thought, was not explaining why he was considering chewing off his arm in all his crippling hunger.

"Lenalee," he tried again. "You're not answering me." With her reply of harder laughter, Allen decided to sit up and fix his problem himself. Well, after brushing his teeth and taking a shower—food was secondary to hygiene, but it was still a close call.

Lenalee sat up as soon as his feet hit the floor, a large grin on her face. "No, Al, hold up," she said in a rush, scrambling to get out of the bed and run in front of him. "Dude, calm down—I'm sorry, I gotta tell Lavi this!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him out the suite with more excitement than necessary.

Allen frowned, utterly confused. "I'd really like to brush my teeth," he spoke up with a stroke of irritation. "So I can, oh what is that thing called again, oh, right, _eat_!"

"Lavi!" Lenalee exclaimed, finding the redhead bundled on the couch. The drummer sat up with a drowsy lurch, clearly unknowing on where the sound came from. "Lavi, wake up—you are about to laugh _so hard_, man."

"Guhwha?" Lavi grumbled, rubbing his good eye. The eye patch stayed on this time in his sleep, Allen noted with a small sense of amusement. "Wha's happenin' again?" He yawned, covering his mouth loosely.

"Allen's hungry," Lenalee announced with the utmost glee.

Lavi stared at her. "…" he clapped his hands uncertainly, and Allen had no idea whether he should be offended or more confused. "Um. Good job? I mean, isn't he always hungry? Like, for serious."

"No, no, no," the Chinese girl argued, huffing. "Allen, how hungry are you? Come on, seriously!"

Was this a trick question? "Um," Allen looked around the room carefully, looking for some sort of escape. "I'm…the hungriest I've ever been in my life. And I can't remember why, for some odd reason."

"Okay?" Lavi scratched his head, frowning in befuddlement. "I mean, I get hungry as fuck too when I've got the munchies, but what—"

"That is _exactly_ it, Lavi!" Lenalee exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"What?" the one-eyed man looked between the two younger teenagers. "The munchies? What the fuck does that have to do with—oh my god, you're not tellin' me—"

"High off his _ass_," Lenalee finished for him, smiling widely.

The only word that could accurately describe Lavi's expression at that moment would likely be 'dumbfounded.' Or perhaps even 'incredulous.'

"You, Allen fucking Walker, got in that pot?" Lavi demanded, untangling his long legs from the cover he was utilizing. "Yo, dude, where th' fuck was I?"

"Missing," Allen admitted with a shrug, less ashamed of the deed than he thought he'd be. "You went looking for Lenalee, Kanda and I talked, Kanda offered me marijuana, we got quite the buzz, and ended up here. Now, I am hungry after having the greatest sleep of my life and I _don't know why_."

"Munchies, munchies, _munchies_, kid!" the redhead insisted, standing up from the couch and cracking his bones into place with a rather pained face. "When you smoke weed, your brain blocks all its receptors. So, your mind is all 'dude, no food' and makes you _think_ you're hungry—you're prob' still under those effects while having real hunger pains—resulting in tons of great food fun!" Lavi held up a hand, grinning widely. "Dude, high-five on getting ya first high!"

"Um." Allen weakly smacked his hand. "Okay?"

"Booyah!" Lavi pumped his fist in the air. "Next, crack-cocaine, dude!"

"Uh no," the British boy replied with a laugh. "I'm probably never going to smoke marijuana again, let alone expand to other drugs." Lavi was such a crazy bastard, it was nearly adorable.

"Oh _you_," Lavi laughed in amusement. "It's 1985. Everyone—but me—is on that crack, kid."

"And me," Lenalee interjected, still utterly overjoyed by his misfortune. "And I doubt Kanda is on that crack. Hopefully."

Allen rolled his eyes. "Right." His stomach began to claw at his flesh once more, and he scratched his head in embarrassment. "Well, if you don't mind me—I'm going to brush my teeth. And then I'm going to render myself bankrupt because I am going to eat _so much_." With that, he pivoted on his heel and stomped to the bathroom with a dignified upturn of the nose.

The bathroom door opened before he could even touch it, and he found himself looking into the oddly dark blue eyes of a "full blooded" Japanese man.

The seconds that passed as they stared into each other's eyes could've been considered nearly romantic in some European countries, while it's simply gay in America.

"Kid," Kanda greeted, nodding. He blinked his eyes, looking over the younger teenager's body with a raised eyebrow. A smirk flit his lips. "…How're those munchies feelin'?"

Oh.

Well, one thing is clear from this.

Yuu Kanda will never change and will always be a brainless, slag-mouthed, fashionably crippled _wanker_ with a drug addiction and a bad habit of blaming everything on everyone.

Who cares that he's a pretty okay bloke sometimes? And what does it matter that him plus marijuana equals right fun?

He's still an ass—always will be, and that's the truth.

Allen smiled, cracking his knuckles idly. "You'd like to know how it feels?" he asked. Then, he reared back and punched Kanda in the stomach, grinning at the pained hiss he received in reply. Lavi and Lenalee gazed upon the event in absolute horror, but he wasn't worried. "That's pretty much how it feels, mate—except, you know, a telephone times worst."

"Ach, you _skeezing bitch_," Kanda started cursing, holding his stomach like a pregnant woman and stumbling out the bathroom. In his eyes, though—there was a short sliver of amusement and maybe respect.

Allen laughed, walking into the bathroom jauntily. It felt good to be a normal guy for once.

* * *

Adam 'The Millennium' Earl did not fancy waiting for anyone.

And when he said _anyone_, he meant everyone short of the Lord himself. And, even then, He better have a great excuse.

"Sir," his driver called, looking at him through the rearview of the mirror. "There's a man coming towards us. Should I step out the vehicle?"

The Earl glanced at him from behind his round spectacles, a wide smile on his face as he rubbed his stubble. "It's alright," he replied, scooting towards the door. "I'll just do it myself."

"Sir—"

"I _insist_, Tryde," the Earl stated sternly, cocking an eyebrow. "I mean, what must I do to convince you? _Repeat_ myself?" How preposterous would _that_ be! The Earl repeating himself—what a _joke_.

Tryde, his trusty bodyguard as well as driver, hesitated, brushing his dark bangs away from his golden eyes. "No sir," he finally replied, looking forward with a frown. "Please, go ahead and exit the vehicle."

Oh, that Tryde. He was so silly, with his intended sarcasm and overprotective tendencies. The Earl grinned, tipping his hat in amusement. "I think I'll be doing just that, my friend," he said, and opened the back door to the limo.

The one thing about DeKalb-Peachtree Airport that he really enjoyed was the fact that it was mostly private. Now, if he were in Hartsfield-Jackson—a big shot guy like him stepping out of a limousine would be a bit of a bigger deal.

The Earl turned around after closing the car's door, a jovial smile on his lips. He may have hated waiting, but even he could admit to the joy one would feel once the wait was over.

A man was, in fact, wandering towards him and the limousine. It was a generally average-height man with nothing but a suitcase, and the Earl grinned as he got closer. Features tended to become clearer the closer someone got, of course.

"Walk faster, you old dog," the Earl called, laughing at the way the man froze. "Come on—are your hips hurting? Does Grandpa need his medication?"

"Oh, off with'cha, ya skew-whiff codger," the man snapped playfully, and he began to trot towards the Earl. "I haven't seen ya in a good four years or so, and it's good to insult me? What kind'a mate're _you_?"

The Earl laughed heartily, wiping a stray tear from under his glasses. "The best one you've got, friend," he replied. The man came to a stop in front of him, and the Earl patted his shoulder roughly. "It's great to see you again, Walker."

"Oh, come off of it! The name's _Neah_," Neah Walker replied, grinning with his perfect white teeth. He seemed to have picked up a distinct tan in his travels, but his hair was as curly and dark brown as usual. "Don't go treatin' me like some…I don't know, _victim_ of yours."

"I like to call them business associates," the Earl corrected, grinning. He waved the man towards the limousine, turning around. "But, we can't waste any time. We've gone an entire day without you, and you likely won't even be there until the last match." He shrugged. "But, eh."

Neah laughed, his voice high-pitched and fitting for his distinctive tenor. "Eh's right," he said with a wink. "I mean, I'm busy here! Let me get settled, then we can deal with this whole 'judging' business."

"Of course," the Earl agreed, smirking. "By the way, how surprised do you think they might be?"

"That I, The bloody Musician will be there?" Neah snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. "Pah! They'll get ova' it. It'll be a bit of a surprise, but, like you said, _eh_."

The Earl shrugged, amused. "But, I do love a good family reunion."

* * *

…I'm pretty sorry about this, actually. No, not the chapter, because I think it's a good chappie, but the _wait_.

While I, the Kaza, dutifully believe all my excuses to be valid—it all varies on you. :D So, shortly after the last chapter, I attended my senior prom. One week after that exactly, my eighteenth birthday (cigarettes wooo)! One week exactly after _that_, my high school graduation (I was in top ten percent, guize). Then, after that, my summer job (which was working web design at a daycare lolol) and my other summer job (which was t-shirt design). During that, I bought a PS3 that came with Final Fantasy XIII. That was my fucking LIFE outside of work and sleep. Then, got my driver's license, and two days after that I got in a car crash oops. After that, time for college. Hit the road for St. John's University and never looked back.

And as an art major, by the way, my credit hours are ridiculous. Instead of the normal 15 that most college students take, I'm stuck with 18. D: And all my classes? Fuck if they aren't long, dude. My graphic design class is from 9 to 11:50. THAT SUCKS. WHO WANTS TO BE IN CLASS THAT LONG? And the majority of my classes are just that long. :(

So yes, blah blah blah excuses blah who cares? This chapter is finally done, and I personally love Allen in this shit. :D MARIJUANA is bad for you don't do it. :D But even my mom smoked pot in the 80s, because it was the 80s. It wasn't acceptable, but it just happened ha ha OH MAN AND KANDA HAS A BACKSTORY THAT IS IMPORTANT? Pshaw yeah right that's crazy talk AND NEXT CHAPTER LAVI AND ALLEN WILL FINALLY GET SOME SHIT GOING and everyone who says I make Allen a "weakling" and "girly" I'd just like to say "YEAH RIGHT ARE YOU EVEN READING THIS"

Shout outs to: frizzie123, DeathByDawn, Darmed, d3m0nang3l1106, and everyone else who might've mentioned the 14th as the missing third judge (I looked through but I think those were the only direct mentions I got ha ha)

BY THE WAY I am picking up on this crazy strand of New York dialect! I now pronounce 'crayons' like a doucebag—"Hey, can you pick me up some crayns?" "Crayns? Wtf is a crayns?" "Crayns! Those things for coloring!" "Oh, you meant _crayons_. Ha ha look at what NY has done to you" "SHADDUP YOU MAKIN' FUN'NA ME?"

Wisely is my homedog. :D That is all.


	37. Tarzan Boy

_THIRTY-SEVEN_

Sherman Camelot was a lot of things, if he were to admit it.

He was good-looking, charismatic, suave, a great fucking brother, the best father in the history of ever, and the most amazing thing to happen to VJs since the invention of VJs.

But, right now, Sherman was not impressed.

"What do you mean he won't be here until the last event of the day?" he demanded on the phone, the plastic handset clenched in his tight grip. "You do realize, Earl, that this is entirely unethical and even—"

"_Oh come on, Sheryl,_" the Earl laughingly cut him off, which only managed to annoy the shit out of Sherman. "_The man just got here—he's going through some serious jetlag, and he wants to try this 'Chik-Fil-A' that Georgia's so known for._"

Sherman stared at the phone for at least two minutes. "You must be kidding me, Earl," he finally forced himself to say, his eyes narrowed to the point he could barely even see.

"_Actually—no, I'm not._" The Earl chuckled like some douchebag of a grandfather—which is almost what he was. "_Be happy, though, that we will get there today at all. I mean, we could go on a road trip to Birmingham—_"

"Please. Don't." The dark-skinned man insisted from between clenched teeth. He looked at his makeshift office, which was really just a table in his hotel room strewn with all kinds of papers and statistics. "Okay. Okay, I can handle this. He was missing yesterday, he can keep being elusive today—it's not a big deal." And, by 'not a big deal,' he meant a huge deal was being made.

The Earl could be a real crazy bitch on average.

Speaking of the old bastard: "_I knew you could handle it, Sheryl,_" the Earl said, verbally pleased. "_You're the best man for the job, I knew it!_"

"If you're trying to butter me up," Sherman deadpanned with a ticking eyebrow. "Then just know that you are failing. And you are failing _badly_."

"_Well of course I'm not 'buttering' you up—what am I, a knife?_" Sherman could hear the shared cackles of two terrible men in his ear. "_Ha ha—okay, okay. I'm sorry, Sherman._"

"Thank you," the VJ replied, straightening his posture to belie his regal nature. He couldn't let his daughter see him have a panic attack by his stance alone—she'd either be devastated or lord it over him for the next five months.

Knowing Rhode, she'd probably lord it like it was Christ. God bless his darling girl.

"_Though, tell me, how're the competitions going? What's the dealio, dude?_" If Tyki thought _Sherman_ using the slang of the time was bad, then he'd probably vomit violently at the sound of The Earl trying it out. "_Who do you think has the most promise, Sherman? Talk to me._"

Sherman furrowed his eyebrows, not truly understanding where this turn in the subject came from. "Well, we've gotten rid of a lot of the shit," he said, sifting through the papers on his desk. "And the street team did a bit of a survey last night while the majority of the audience was still loitering."

The Earl sounded intrigued. "_Oh,_" he hummed. "_What were the results so far?_"

"As expected, _Noah's Ark_ is at the top of everyone's mind," the dark-skinned man explained, smirking as he finally found the file he was searching for. "A good bit of the audience was impressed by the beginning of the competitions, where _Noah's Ark_ destroyed the opposing band, _Animal Suit_. They're claiming that the Battle should pretty much be over, and that Tyki is at his prime in talent."

"_And the _Black Order_?_" the Earl asked next, with a short scolding to the man he was hanging about. "_Walker, don't you dare drink that whiskey—it's only ten._"

Sherman frowned. Why the hell would anyone take the time to ask about the _Black Order_? That two bit band was nothing but a pain in the ass so far, and Sherman wasn't afraid to show it. "What about the _Black Order_?" he replied calmly, fixing his shirt collar idly.

The Earl snorted in amusement. "_Let's not play dumb, Sheryl,_" he said in amusement, causing Sherman to purse his lips tersely. "_How is the Black Order doing? Surely there's something in your so-called 'survey' that talks about them, yes?_"

_If I had the means,_ the VJ thought with no little amount of spite. _I'd kill you where you stood, old man._ He bent over the file, running his finger over the scrawled statements by way of his less-than-intelligent street team. He really wanted to fire the life out of them, but that would be pointless at this very moment.

"A good one-fourth of the audience thinks the _Black Order_ shows a lot of promise," Sherman admitted, agitated. He was a fool to think he could use these children for _anything. _"And that the singer, a Miss Lenalee Lee, is the best singer in the competition after Tyki Mikk and before Tina Spark of _Cloud Gospel_."

There was a short silence on the other end, and the VJ furrowed his eyebrows in trying to analyze that silence. "…Hello?" he called, frowning.

"_Oh!_" the Earl chuckled in that obnoxious way he was almost _notorious_ for. "_Yes, yes, sorry Sherman. I was just thinking on how interesting this all is, of course. The Black Order…_" His voice trailed off into a simple hum, and Sherman was not sure if he should be pleased.

"Why the sudden interest in the _Black Order_ now?" he asked, even though he remembered how he actually _wanted_ the Earl to meet them earlier. But, now it felt like they were taking attention away from _Noah's Ark_, and this was not the right time to do that, in production terms.

The Earl laughed at him, stroking his nerves once more. "_Why not?_" he replied. "_I love a good band—that's why I'm in this business. As well,_" this is where the Earl's voice dropped to a whisper, and Sherman pressed the phone to his ear tightly. "_I adore a great drama, which the _Black Order_ is full of_."

"It's consisted of teenagers," Sherman deadpanned. Teenagers are, well, _made_ of drama. "If they were any younger they'd be called New Edition."

"_You are utterly hilarious, Sherman_," the old codger cooed. "_I love you like the arrogant, bastardly child I never had._"

"And I love _you_ like the senile, extravagantly annoying, possibly schizophrenic father I _did_ use to have." Take _that_, old douchebag.

The Earl chuckled again, and Sherman could hear the loud noise of an Englishman on the rampage. "_Walker—Walker, don't touch that bottle! Didn't you just leave rehab?_" Walker replied in a thick, muffled voice indecipherable to humans, and the Earl just huffed. "_You sly bastard. Sherman!_" Sherman cocked an eyebrow, curious at knowing the progress of 'Walker' and the creepy old man babysitting him. "_We'll be there later today. Save me a special seat, would you? Bye!_" and the line went dead.

Sherman rolled his eyes and placed the phone on its stand surrounded by papers. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, knowing that he had a short amount of time to himself before he had to go out and face the ignorant masses once more.

"Walker," he muttered, squinting his eyes in thought. "Walker, Walker, Walker."

_Allen Walker,_ the long-haired man remembered, rubbing his clean chin. _Allen Walker of the _Black Order_. Neah Walker, who is with the Earl at this very moment—_

Sherman looked down at the many papers on his makeshift desk. "Earl," he muttered, a pleased gleam coming into his golden eyes. "You're a sadistic sucker for soap operas."

He loved a little _General Hospital_ himself, actually.

* * *

"Game plan," Lenalee proclaimed, slapping a hurriedly scrawled sheet of notebook paper in the middle of the table in the diner the band and some others currently occupied. "Read it or weep, dudes."

Lavi picked it up gingerly, like it had the capacity to eat his soul or something crazy like that. "Okay," he hummed, squinting his one eye. "'Sing songs by obscure British bands,' and you misspelled 'obscure'. 'Break Kanda's guitar for euphoric effect,' and you misspelled 'euphoric.' 'Incorporate dance routine to impress masses,' and you misspelled 'routine.' What the fuck is this?"

"Okay, Grammar Nazi," Lenalee replied with a frown, but then broke into giggles at the irony of her accusation. "Sorry, sorry, my bad. Okay! But, other than the minor mistakes—"

"Watson, this shit is _elementary_," the redhead insisted, hitting the paper. "I don't even know how ya made it to high school—Jesus Christ, put down the butter knife and nobody gets hurt, Lenalady!"

"Calling a Jew a 'grammar Nazi,'" Allen commented offhandedly, cutting his fifth pancake into savage pieces. "And the same Jew proclaiming 'Jesus Christ' for blessed safety. How my life has become so very ironic."

Lenalee stared at him, the knife still poised over Lavi's nose. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over how _high_ you were," she replied sweetly. "What'd you say? But with less _marijuana_."

Allen rolled his eyes, _passionately_. "Seems like you're never gonna let that go," he said with a grin. He then stabbed into at least seven pieces of pancake and stuffed them into his mouth with the most grace Lenalee had ever seen done with a pancake. "I mean," he continued after wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You'd think I offended you by being high. Which, by the way, is an _amazing_ feeling."

"Dude," Lenalee shook her head. "Komui would know the _moment_ I toked pot, even if I did it here." She frowned, her eyebrows furrowing. "I, I think he has cameras watching me sometimes."

Kanda rolled his eyes, a cup of orange juice in his hands. "That's fucking _stupid_," he scoffed. "You dead seriously think your retarded brother is _watching_ you? With _cameras_?"

"Robots," Lavi said somberly, and the band stewed on that for a moment before simultaneously shuddering. "You can do anything when you build Arnolds."

Lenalee did _not_ want to think about that right now. She loved Komui, but sometimes she cursed him to the ends of the earth for his…_ugh_. "Anyway!" she exclaimed, forcefully pointing at the paper. "Back to business, boys. Is this a great plan, or is this a great plan?"

"C, none of the above," Kanda deadpanned, and Allen snickered. They looked at each other for a short moment, and Kanda coughed heartily with a cruel smirk while the English boy cackled louder, and for the first time in a while Lenalee felt _really_ out of the loop. Which is so surreal considering how she didn't even know Kanda and Allen _had_ a loop.

"Yo," Lavi commented, looking a little terse. "Congrats on your marriage, I'm mad sorry I couldn't make it to your reception," at that, the two almost immediately stopped with _whatever_ they were giggling about, looking appropriately awkward and turning away from each other. "But we _do_ need to talk about what the hell we're gonna do for this shit—there are some _really_ good bands out there, and we need to do something better than what we're doing now. But not a dance routine."

Lenalee snapped her fingers in defeat. "Foiled again," she muttered.

Allen scratched the back of his neck, a blush creeping up his overly pale neck. "Right, sorry," he said, smiling awkwardly. He moved pieces of pancake around with his fork, humming in thought. Then, he looked up with a start, surprising the other members of their group. "Wait; do any of us know what's supposed to happen today at any rate?"

Lenalee cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, you know!" He did some vague gesture with his hands that meant very little to everybody. "What are we supposed to do on stage? What ridiculous thing meant to make us waste time is going to happen today?"

"Like," Lavi added, grinning. "Some sort of Best Band Name contest? Oh, oh, or a Fashionably Acceptable Questionnaire!"

"Or!" Allen continued, clapping his hands together. "How about a Guitar Solo Standoff? Surely that's a reasonable contest for us to try!"

"I like the idea of a Bass Line Bash, though."

"Really? I was really feeling like I could get into the You Will Never Be Better than Noah's Ark competition." The two burst into high pitched laughter, and then it was Kanda's turn to be disgruntled. Though, Lenalee eyed him suspiciously, about _what_ is the true question.

He bumped his fist on the table, just enough to catch the attention of everyone in the freaking restaurant. The Chinese girl smacked her forehead, like _way to be subtle Kanda. You're like a ninja with a blow horn, man._ "Knock it off, skeezers," he growled, his cup nearly crushed in his grip. "Now who's not taking this seriously?"

"Hey," Lavi started, quirking a short grin that seemed to tense Kanda more than placate him. "Dude, I've most triumphantly been taking this thing seriously—I mean, bro, I already told the bunks from the Ark that we're going to win." He scratched the back of his head, laughing. "I'd really like to carry that out, buddy."

Lenalee, who had begun to zone out a little and think more of their possible stage performances, blinked in surprise at this random bit of information. "Dude, when'd _you_ hang out with Noah's Ark?" she asked.

"Yesterday," the redhead replied, with a conspicuous glance towards the admittedly dangerous buddy team of Kanda and Allen. "While the Druggie Duo was doing what they do best—hotbox, duh—I got lost on some magical path called 'Covington Highway' and ended up in a Waffle House, which, _by the way_, Brit, is _not_ a meeting place for the Ku Klux Klan. It's, like, the total opposite."

Allen grimaced. "What are you, an elephant?" he demanded, but Lavi seemed to ignore that and continued on with his story.

"_Noah's Ark_, but missin' a couple of members, came in behind me—so, it was decided that we would eat together," and then, he sort of swooned before a creepy-looking blush crept onto his cheeks. "And, holy shit, dudes—Lulu Bell _talked_ to me."

"No fuckin' way," Kanda said immediately, scowling in disdain. "There is _no _fuckin' way you're gonna tell me that Lulu fuckin' Bell of _Noah's_ fuckin' _Ark_ talked to you. _You_."

"You," Lenalee agreed, shrugging.

"You," Allen also concurred.

Lavi stuck up his middle finger. "_You_ guys can go fuck yerselves," he said cheerfully. "Because it's clear you're just hating on the fact that the most mysterious and beautiful member of _Noah's Ark_ talked to me, so suck it, dweebs!"

"What'd she talk about if she said so much to you then, dude?" the singer asked, a smile on her lips. "I mean, 'cause you'd know, right?"

"You've the memory of a verifiable computer, mate," Allen added with a grin.

The one-eyed man paused, rubbing his slightly stubble-brushed chin. "She told me that women are dudes too," he replied. "And that I shouldn't always be sure that Yuu and Allen would beat the shit outta each other when nobody's around. Now that I think about it, what the fuck is she psychic?"

The other three members stared at him for a long moment, and he didn't even squirm.

Kanda broke the silence with an overly incredulous scoff. "That sounds weird as shit, and everyone knows Lulu Bell wouldn't talk about weird shit," he replied. "I don't believe you, Jew."

"You've ruined my breakfast with your lies," Allen stated with a sigh, dropping his fork on his ridiculously empty plate.

Well, maybe it was women's intuition, but somehow Lenalee didn't feel like Lulu Bell was speaking nonsense.

* * *

"You know what I love the most about hanging with you, Tyki?" Rhode began, flicking out her wrist to release the Yoyo trapped in her grip. "The lung cancer. I really love the lung cancer."

"You know what I love the most about hanging with you, Rhode?" Tyki replied drolly, running a cheap razor against his foam covered chin while a cigarette hung from between his lips. "Nothing."

"Tsk!" the teenager clicked her tongue in disdain, the Yoyo jerking back into her metaphorical claws. "You're such a dick sometimes, Tyki. It's hard to believe you're my uncle."

Tyki glanced down at her minutely. "Why the hell are you in here?" he asked slowly. "I'm a grown man shaving in a hotel bathroom—what're you trying to do? Make me look like a pervert?"

"Oh, you don't need my help for that," she commented with the slightest bit of disdain. "I mean, your creeping on Allen? Totes normal, dude."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "My relationship with Allen has nothing to do with you," he weakly argued, offended. "And I already know it's a little weird, Jesus Christ. But haven't you ever wanted something but everyone, even yourself, knows you can't have it?"

"…My own Atari?"

"I, I'm just going to stop spilling my heart to kids."

Rhode huffed, swinging her legs against the edge of the bathtub she sat upon. "Okay, faggot," she seemingly complied; rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder her head wasn't motorized. "I get it, you're in love with Allen Walker, he's like total jailbait, and you're in, like, rival bands. Are you done cleaning out your vagina or do I need to talk some more about how gay you are?"

Tyki used to have girlfriends, once upon a time. Of course he did, he's young, devastatingly handsome, and a well-to-do kind of guy if not a little shady. Unfortunately, the problem that occurred with women was how the majority of the females in his immediate vicinity (Rhode, Lulu) were either complete bitches or weird and too much like him. When he would date, he would always find himself comparing to his favorite (though this was questionable) ladies, which usually made him a bit crept out and so he would end up having sex and never calling them back once this realization hit.

So, suffice to say, he sometimes blames Rhode for ruining his relationships. Other times he'll blame Lulu, but for now Rhode will do.

"My brother needs to put you in foster care," he finally said, putting the razor on the sink and stumping out his cigarette. He turned the tap on the sink and rinsed his face with cold water, slapping his jaw just to make sure he got all of the cream off his face.

"Then who would take my place as guitarist for the Ark?" Rhode retorted, an eyebrow cocked. "That Japanese dude from Allen's band, Kanda? Or, how about that guy from _Third_, what was his name? Madison?"

The hell if he knew. "The hell if I know," Tyki replied with a dismissive wave. He hummed in thought, walking out the bathroom. "Talking about _Third_, though—one of those freaks asked me yesterday if I could make sure the _Black Order_ stayed in the running until the end."

Rhode trotted out after him, looking utterly Hessian in her morbid, tight dark clothing, spiked accessories and carefully teased short hair. He always did like her style in shoes, though—she never once made combat boots look bad. "Why?" she asked, still playing with her Yoyo. "I mean, why the _Black Order_? That's a really weird question."

"That's what I said," he stated, roving around the common room in search of his glasses. Tyki had astigmatism as an optical defect, where he could see with a bit of blur without the spectacles, but he preferred to have perfect sight in private. "It apparently has something to do with that Japanese bodyguard of Allen's, what'd you say his name was? Andrew?"

"Kanda," Rhode corrected. She fell silent for a moment, still playing with her Yoyo. "I don't get it. Why would he ask about that guy?"

Tyki shrugged, grabbing the acoustic guitar by the door and shouldering it by the strap. "It's prob' some rivalry shit," he replied, pressing his thumb against the D chord while tuning it carefully. "Give me a song, Rhode."

"Piano Man," she said immediately, and snickered at the offended look on his face. "What? You can't play Billy Joel on a guitar? What are you, stupid?"

"_Cala_," he started blandly. "_A boca_. Christ." His fingers plucked out a few chords with no true purpose, until it started to sound like Gene Chandler. "_Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl,_" he chanted in song, closing his eyes. He loved this song—it was an amazing piece of work. "_Nothing can stop me now—'cause I'm, the Duke of Earl—_"

Rhode was now sitting on the hotel-provided table in the common room, with that damned toy spinning at her fingertips slowly. "You can sing old shit like this," she scoffed. "But you can't do Billy Joel? What kind of musician are you?"

"_I'm gonna love you, oh, oh,_" he kept singing, dead set on ignoring the girl as best he could.

"But, for cereal," she swung her legs freely, catching the toy. "There's something _off_ about the _Black Order_. Like, Allen looks def familiar, but I've never met him until that day they opened for us."

Tyki kept strumming, but found himself unwillingly intrigued by Rhode's opinion. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know how you're watching TV, right," Rhode replied offhandedly. "And you see someone and think, dude, he looks kinda like someone I know. Allen looks kinda like someone I know, except I don't know who." She shrugged.

She was so useful it was devastating at times. "Uh…_huh_," Tyki replied slowly, returning his attention to his guitar. He never felt that familiar feeling when looking at Allen, or at least he never noticed because of the heavy tugs of affection that plagued his heart when he was near the rival band. Sometimes, though, he did look at Allen and wonder what it would be like if the boy were any different, and realized that those weren't the greatest thoughts.

"Sometimes, though," she continued, looking at him oddly. "I get the same feeling about you. Huh—that's weird."

Yet, before Tyki could reply to Rhode, the hotel door burst open, and his _brother_ seemingly swept into the common room with more extravagance than necessary.

"Rhode!" he cried, holding his arms out wide. "You weren't in the room this morning, so I thought you went to breakfast with the twins!"

"I fucking hate the twins," Rhode replied blandly, not resisting the forced embrace from her father. "They're annoying as hell—why would I spend any moment of my day with those dweebs?"

Sherman sighed. "Language, darling," he said, releasing her. He turned and found Tyki sitting on the ground, looking almost too much like a homeless man on the lam. "Tyki. Is it too hard to get ready for today's events? Really?"

"What're today's events, again?" the younger man asked, not looking up from his acoustic guitar.

His brother groaned, clearly annoyed. "Cover songs," he said. "Today is an entire day dedicated to _cover songs_."

Tyki liked doing covers, sometimes. It varied on the artist and the genre of music, but usually he was good for singing Yazoo in the shower. "Hmm…" he hummed, pausing his music. He looked up at his brother, who was really looking all too smug for his comfort. "You look too happy—is it sabotage day?"

"No, idiot," Sherman scoffed. "Have you heard some of these people? Sabotage would make it almost _too easy_ to get them out."

Once he remembered a few of the singers in the competition he himself took part of, Tyki shuddered violently. "Who the hell told half these losers to start a band?" he asked, holding his precious acoustic guitar close to himself.

"Satan," because that was obviously the most logical answer. Sherman clapped his hands together, shaking his head in displeasure. "Anyway, get that cigarette out your mouth and get to my room—you guys need to practice before you hit the stage, and I'd rather not have your voice crack like its 1974 again."

"Ha ha," Tyki laughed sarcastically. "You and that memory Sherman, wow. Looks like we can't get anything past those crazy brains of yours, hmm?"

Sherman was not impressed. "While you're being a smartass, Little Brother," he replied calmly. "I know every single embarrassing thing you've done since the day you were born. Remember when you _really_ liked Sesame Street, and you tried to be Kermit—"

Oh God, he did know too much. "Okay, we can stop now," Tyki said with a smile, holding his guitar closer to himself. "I mean, fuck you Sheryl. _Fuck you_."

"Indeed." The older brother tossed some wayward strands of his long hair over his shoulder. "Now, get up, get rid of that wrapped cancer, and get some voice exercises in. Rhode, you too—in fact, you're coming with me."

"Daaaad," Rhode whined particularly hard. "I already know the measures to all the songs on the new albuuum. Tyki's the asshole who doesn't play an instrument—he should have to practice alone, the bunk."

_Fuck you too Rhode,_ Tyki's eyebrow twitched. He loved his family so much it hurt.

_Oh god_ it hurt.

"Sweetheart, no," Sherman clicked his tongue in a final sort of tone. "You all need to talk, and decide which songs you want to play. What if everyone decides they want to cover a song by _the Zombies_? Do you know all the chords to 'Time of the Season,' Rhode?"

"Eww," she replied, and Tyki wholeheartedly agreed. "Nobody should know the chords to that, it's, like, a crime against bestiality."

"Humanity, kid," Tyki corrected.

Rhode glanced at him. "The amount of animals that die after listening to _the Zombies_ is mega wrong," she said simply. "We can cover our ears or turn it off. Dogs commit suicide."

"This is a stupid fucking conversation—"

"Shut up Tyki," his brother reprimanded. "And, lovely logic, darling, but we really must be going. You have ten minutes to look like a functional member of society, Tyki. I'll be back."

The VJ, with a hand gripping his daughter's shoulder gently but sternly, led the two out of the room and left Tyki on the floor with his hollow acoustic for company.

"…" He strummed the guitar once. "This competition…"

It was starting to get on his nerves.

* * *

"I can't fucking wait until this is over," Kanda whispered out loud, not really meaning for anyone to hear his disdain, but he was okay with the way Allen nodded in agreement. "A day full of cover songs? You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me, dork."

Lenalee sighed, rubbing her arm sheepishly. "I wish I was, dude," she replied with a weak smile. "I mean, come on, I kinda _wanted_ a Bass Line Bash—somethin' original or _something_."

"I know what you mean," Lavi said, tapping the top of his head with his own drumsticks. Fucking retard, who _does that_? "And they're sayin' that we need a goddamn _setlist_ of covers—like, four or five or what-the-fuck-ever they want. We are so fuckin' screwed, kids."

Yeah, Kanda shrugged. They pretty much were.

After the untimely and pretty hilarious breakfast where Allen ate enough to supply a maritime war for twenty years, the band set off to find an information booth or some shit like it, only to discover that the challenge for the entire day was a setlist of cover songs from each remaining band—of which generally numbered to twenty or twenty-five. Kanda didn't really care for the details, other than that they were number 14, and _Third_ was number 10.

As it was, they only got by yesterday because of the goddamned musically-inclined Panamanian's creepy as fuck stalking and the fact that the brat was still weak as hell when it came to rejecting the guy.

_Just punch him in the face,_ Kanda thought off subject for a moment, sneering at any jerk that passed. _Come the fuck on, kid—one punch, he's gone forever. I know I sure as hell wouldn't want to be with some dweeb that punched me._

His abdominal muscles ached for a second, and he remembered this very morning where Allen hauled out on his stomach.

_He hits hard as shit,_ Kanda mused with a grimace, rubbing his chin. _Fuck. He hits _really_ hard for a kid that skinny._ His eyes unwillingly moved to his bandmate's backside, and he immediately looked up at Lenalee's shoulders for rectification. _Maybe he's not that skinny—Jesus fucking Christ what the fuck am I _thinking_?_

"—Kanda?" the Chinese singer was calling his name, and he suddenly snapped to attention. "Dude, what do you think?"

Kanda hadn't heard a damn thing said in the past ten minutes. "What?" he asked gruffly. "I wasn't listening to shit that you guys said. What am I supposed to think about, again?"

"It's okay," Allen started with a grin, and Kanda knew that he walked right into that one. "We can't expect you to overwork that tiny hamster in your skull." He sighed, crossing his arms like the faggot he probably was. "Personally, I believe it deserves a raise. You?"

"I hate you," Kanda replied calmly. "So fucking much."

Lavi laughed, twirling the drumstick in between his fingers. "Guys, _guys_," he attempted to calm everyone down. "Let's hit up a roach later in celebration for your engagement—right now, fuckin' business, bros." He stuck the stick between his left ear and headband. "We need to decide some songs, and we need to decide them _quick_."

"The competition starts at eleven," Lenalee explained, gesticulating nervously. "And right now, it's nine. Dude, we're so screwed—oh my _gooood_—"

"Calm the fuck down, Lenalee," Kanda grunted, rubbing his temples. Jesus Christ, this was going to get very annoying very fast. "We got two hours—maybe even more, 'cause we're definitely not the first ones to compete."

"Every few millennia," Allen said with a grin. "Even a moron will make a good point. Now to wait another three thousand years—" Here, he winked in the most sensual way possible just to piss Kanda off, even though that's not a difficult thing to do. "—and to decide five songs we've practiced before."

Lenalee sighed again. "That's one of the problemos," she said. "We practice so many original songs that I can't really think of shit we do by other people."

Kanda furrowed his eyebrows, thinking hard about the amount of covers songs they've done in the short lifetime they've been a band.

"Kajagoogoo," he spoke, suddenly itching for a stick of gum. He needed to chew something, badly. "We played the shit earlier in the year, remember?"

"Yeah, but that was, like, in January," the singer replied, threading her fingers through her hair. Her eyes lit up. "Hey, isn't that the song we first played for Allen? Sweet! We're definitely doing that one, it's, like, memorial or something."

Allen looked at Kanda, who caught his eyes with an equal expression of 'What the fuck.' "Uh, yeah, sure." He just let it happen, because fighting with Lenalee was never truly worth it.

_Oh god the boobs_, he shivered in disgust.

Lavi snapped his fingers excitedly. "Yo, remember that shit you guys did back when me and Yuu graduated?" he asked, grinning widely. "Gold? By Spandau Ballet? We could most definitely rock that shit, dudes!"

Allen's eyes widened. "You are most certainly correct!" he said with a smirk. "And it's still fresh in our minds! How about 'Saints Goes Marching'? A tad childish but, come on now, they never said we couldn't!"

"They probably do have official rules somewhere," Lavi pointed out. At everyone's offended look, he held up his hands in an innocent measure. "But who the fuck cares we should do it anyway!"

"Excellent!" Lenalee cried. Kanda just smirked, and Allen nodded his head in approval.

Until the British freak paused. "Wait," he started cautiously. "We have another issue. While, yes, it's lovely we've found three songs so far…I don't exactly know the sheets to Kajagoogoo."

That's when it dawned on everyone that nobody truly knew any song.

"Yuu and I don't know shit about _Gold_, other than it's an ace song," Lavi whispered, dragging his hand along his face like he was trying to remove the skin. "Holy shit."

"Then the only fucking song we really know how to play together," Kanda continued, holding back a feral snarl in all his annoyance. "is fucking _Saints_. Wow, we call ourselves a goddamn band and all we know is Saints?" Geez, they sounded like the biggest losers this side of the Hudson, for Christ's sake.

Lenalee, with her hands on her hips, scoffed so passionately that everyone had to look at her for a moment. "Saints is a kickass song, first of all," she began, pacing the area. "And we have two hours to cram the _shit_ out of those other two songs into our heads." She paused, looking thoughtful. "If we need to, we can even cut out whoever can't play something when it's time for that song. Like, cut out Al for Kajagoogoo—"

"Cut me and Yuu out for Gold!" Lavi cried, pumping both his fists in the air with his drumsticks gripped tightly. "Oh, we have got this shit _down_, dude!"

Allen patted his bicep, shaking his head sadly. "Unfortunately, even if we did pull that off," he countered gently. "We still only know three songs."

"Fuck _this_," Kanda found himself groaning, "I don't even care anymore, losers. We have three songs? Great, we will do those three fucking songs, 'cause we don't know shit else."

"What about that song we did that one time?" Lavi asked like everybody knew what the fuck he was talking about.

Even Lenalee had to give him a deadpan look. "Oh, you mean that song we did that one time we played a song on that day, right?" she asked sarcastically.

The redhead smacked his forehead, realizing the error of his ways. "Fuck you guys," he huffed. "I meant that song we did with the One, the Only, the Most Excellent Lady Herself—"

"Anita?" Kanda demanded, feeling a sort of ache in his stomach at the memory. "No."

"But, Yuu," Lavi tried.

"No, faggot," Kanda snarled. "We are not doing that shit, and what did I tell you about using my goddamn first name?"

Lavi smiled. "That it was only okay at night between the sheets, baby," he replied.

Kanda decided then that it was time for the Jew to die. He obviously had outlived his usefulness—if there was anything of the sort in the beginning.

"Before Lavi is murdered in cold blood," Allen spoke up, displaying some pretty sick psychic powers. "We would not truly be able to do it. I've a hunch that playing one song one time, _entirely on accident_ mind you, is not a sign of near mastery. Also, it wouldn't be the same without Andy on tambourine."

Kanda shuddered. "Don't call me that," he grumbled.

"That was a crazy night," Lenalee sighed, wistful. She paced the ground afterward, arms crossed under her ample chest impatiently. "So, we have three songs, and only one of them we know as a group. I'm cool with Operation Just Do Those Songs and Hope for the Best—you dudes?"

"Totally," said Lavi.

"Wicked," agreed Allen.

"What the fuck _ever_," groused Kanda.

With two hours (or more) to spare, the band knew they really had no time, and set out to practice. Where and with what instrument, in the case of Allen?

They looked at each other and felt that anywhere was okay—and the British teenager decided it was time to cash in a favor from his favorite (as questionable as this was) twins.

"Catch you in a minute or so," Allen said, separating from the group. "I need to get me a synth."

* * *

Jasdero and David seemed all-too surprised when they opened the door.

"A-Walk!" David exclaimed, a grin brightening his tanned face. "A pleasure findin' ya here!"

"What does it?" Jasdero asked amiably, gesturing excitedly for the boy to come into their hotel suite. "Ya came to cop a glance at our practice? Or jus' for some good ol' fashioned Mikk lovin'? 'Cause Tyki's in the next room over—"

Allen cut him off ungracefully. "None o' that," he said with a grimace, walking cautiously into the suite. It looked generally normal at first glance, but life in America has taught him that _nothing_ is as safe as it seems. Not even kittens. "I came to borrow your synth, Jasdero and David. As I asked a good night or so ago?"

David and Jasdero shared a look. "Right!" the older twin said, nodding. "I rememba' that night. You nearly wet your skivvies when I jumped off that balcony!"

"Don't remind me," Allen said darkly. He shook his head, his hair getting into his eyes subsequently. "Any roads, how does it? Might I use it for today?"

The twins laughed, and David clapped his shoulder joyfully. "Notta issue, A-Walk," he said with a smile.

"We've about three," Jasdero explained, laughing. "Won't do us much harm t' lend one out to our fav'rite little Londonite." His face sobered almost instantly after that statement, and he leaned in close to Allen's face. "But, ye gotta bring it back before midnight."

"Elsewise," David continued. "It'll turn into a mango."

"What the dirty fuck," Allen said, and then clapped a hand over his mouth in shock. "I have no idea what has come over me—I am _so very_ so—"

The twins were laughing rambunctiously, like he just told some hilariously funny joke instead of cursed like some sort of rough-and-tumble thug—like _Kanda_.

_It is time,_ he thought dully. _To limit my exposure to him. It is not affecting me well._

"What the dirty fuck, ah? Sounds wicked!" David cackled.

Jasdero ruffled his hair. "You can doubly borrow the synth now if you're speakin' sailor 'cause o' it!" he exclaimed.

"David, Jasdero—okay, this is weary," Allen complained. "Can't I just call you, I don't know, Jasdavi or something of the sort?"

The two older teenagers, once calm, shared a look contemplatively. "Why not?" David replied, shrugging.

"I think that's what Rhode calls us anyway," Jasdero said.

"Lovely," Allen said. "So, Jasdavi—how about that synth soon, ah?"

"Alright," Jasdero sighed, grinning. "But rememba', A-Walk—"

"—you break it," David said, throwing an arm across the younger boy's shoulders. "You're _ours_, mate."

"Creepy psychic twin powers aside," Allen replied, shrugging the arm off his being. "I understand completely."

"Wotcher!" David nuzzled the top of his head, and Allen was a bit tickled by it. "We'll leave you to it, then—or, at least, once Jazzy gets it."

Jasdero threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "What the dirty fuck," he said, and then the twins burst into fits of laughter again.

Allen smacked his forehead.

_Fuck you, Kanda._

* * *

"Wait, how'd you get a synth?" Lavi asked, squinting his one eye suspiciously.

Allen, sporting a near permanent flush of embarrassment, weakly smiled.

"I've connections," he said.

* * *

"_And, now, band number ten—_Third!"

Kanda froze, the chords to Kajagoogoo almost instantly forgotten while his thumb rested on the taut D string. Lavi made a sort of half-choked sound in the back of his throat that led the guitarist to think the freak was excited or something.

"We gotta check them out," Lavi said.

Lenalee looked nervous. "I dunno, dude…" she trailed off, crossing her arms.

"Lenalady, dude, bro, sista—_come on_," he insisted. "We _need_ to check out _Third_—I've never seen the entire band in concert before, and that is, like, one of my biggest dreams I mean _seriously._"

Allen looked surprised. "Not cereally?" he asked blandly.

"Fuck the Froot Loops, this shit is real," Lavi explained. "Let's just see their set, go back to practicing, and then go up when they call us. It is my _Christmas dream_, Lenalady. Christmas."

The British brat opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it with an audible snap. "I give up," he bemoaned, raking his wrinkled red fingers through his white hair.

"Oh," Lenalee sighed. "O_kay_." She smiled a little, in a secret sort of way. "I kinda want to see them up close too."

"What? You want Madarao to take off his shirt?" Allen asked rhetorically. "Well, well, Lenalee—so you've moved your hawking eyes to another crush—_ow_! Bloody hell, you needed to _kick_ me? Couldn't a simple punch do?"

"I know my kicks hurt more," the Chinese girl said simply. She turned to Kanda, smiling widely. "What do you think, Kanda?"

Kanda _wanted_ to say, 'I think you guys are a bunch of crazy motherfuckers and that we need to practice for fucking serious you crappy bunch of slackers, also I'd rather punch myself in the face than willing watch Madarao mock me onstage,' but the hope in her eyes made him say, "Sure, why the hell not?" which apparently translates to 'HELL YEAH OH MY GOD PARTY' to his idiotic bandmates.

"Yes! Party time!" Lavi crowed, hopping out of the back of the van. They had to get a little ghetto with the practice, and kept the trap kit in the van for convenience's sake.

"Well then," Allen sighed, picking up the synthesizer. He slid it smoothly into a junction in the van, and pivoted on his heel towards the other members. "Let's get a move on, shall we? I'd say they're still setting up right about now."

Kanda made a big, exaggerated show of slowly placing Mugen in its case and then putting that case in the van, but then Lenalee huffed like he was _preventing_ something.

"Ugh," he groaned, placing Mugen safely in the van. He shut the doors and locked them with a practiced ease. "Okay, hosers—let's go."

He felt like he was going to seriously regret this.

"Hey," a raspy, accented voice reverberated throughout the field, and Kanda looked up with a fixed scowl. Madarao and that goddamn troupe of assholes stood on the stage, quickly setting up any necessary equipment and getting in place with a practiced ease. "I'm Madarao, this is'a _Third_, and we're happy t' be here."

The crowds screamed and thrashed around Kanda, voicing their approval very loudly but it was still annoying as fuck. He furrowed his eyebrows, shoving some wayward dickbag away from his bicep. He still had no idea what the fuck these guys were doing here, seeing as how they were already a fairly well-known band with a deal and all that useless shit.

"Firstly, we're gonna start with one'na our favorite songs by one'na our favorite bands—you'll know it." Madarao paused. "At least, we hope you do." With that, he brought his mouth away from the microphone and turned to the rest of the band to grumble out instructions. Nobody knew if the guy had the capacity to yell or raise his voice to any decibel expressing emotion when it didn't come to music.

Kiredori, Madarao's younger brother that could seriously pass for his sister, shouldered his red and black American Fender and pressed his fingers tightly to the neck. With a shake of his head to get wayward hair out the way of his eyes, he thumbed a sequence of chords that someone would have to be mentally fucking retarded to not know—and even then, they need to be living under a rock too.

"Is," Allen started loudly over the rest of the audience. "Is he playing _Smoke on the Water_?"

The Japanese man groaned. "Yes," he ground out, narrowing his eyes. "Yes he is."

"Why do you sound like you're in pain?"

"Because I fucking hate _Deep Purple_," Kanda answered honestly. "And they are doing this shit to spite me. They are trying to spite me _so fucking hard_, man."

Allen looked like he wanted to ask another question, but ended up shutting his mouth with a sigh. Kanda cocked an eyebrow—what the fuck was up with this kid? If you've got something to say, then say it—what's the use in keeping it quiet?

"_We all came out to Montereux,_" Madarao's voice was a grainy melody that permeated human skin and implanted itself in the mind. Like many singers from the whole Metal scene, his singing voice fluctuated and jumped by way of a lack of screaming. Kanda remembered, though, a time when he wasn't nearly as good as he is now, and crossed his arms in an effort to forget once more. "_On the Lake Geneva shoreline. To make records with a mobile—we didn't have much time…_"

"Fuck this," Kanda spoke, rubbing his neck. "I'll be back in a minute."

Lenalee looked scandalized. "W-wait, where the hell do you think you're goin', dude?" she demanded, a hand on his forearm to stop him.

He looked at her with a cocked eyebrow. "I need t' take a piss," he replied half-truthfully. He actually was going to go camp out in his van until this was over, but using the restroom also didn't seem too out of the way by this point.

"For serious?"

"Dead serious."

Lenalee looked into his eyes for a long while. Kanda tried not to fidget, but she was making it really difficult. It always felt like the girl knew more than she let on—especially since she only knew the minimum amount of details about the older man.

Or at least, he thought that was all she knew.

"All right," Lenalee finally conceded with a sigh. "But come back before their set ends—we need to be ready to motor, dude."

"Got it," Kanda replied, nodding. "I'll be back mega quick, I promise, kid."

She laughed a little and gave him a small salute. "I'm counting on you, Sergeant Kanda."

"Sure, Lieutenant Lee." He rolled his eyes, but ended up smirking anyway. Stuffing as much of his hands as he could into his jean pockets, the guitarist barreled through the crowds in a way that would make John Cusack proud—not that he'd want to make that asshole proud, or anything.

He was almost through the crowd when a hand grabbed his shoulder, and he held back a snarl meant to kill.

"Yo," motherfucking _Lavi_ spoke into his ear, grinning widely. "'Sup, Yuu my boy?"

"…" Kanda put his hand over the fingers gripping his shoulder, still looking forward. "We've known each other for about, what, five fuckin' years?" he asked between grinding his teeth.

He couldn't really hear Lavi's reply, because they were still in an ocean of unnecessarily loud humans. "Right," he said, and pretty much crushed the Jew's hand within his own grip. "And you still don't fuckin' know not to touch me? What the fuck, airhead?"

Lavi retracted his hand almost immediately, hissing in pain. Kanda continued his walk through the crowds, shoving people whenever necessary and accidentally stepping on some weird Hispanic-looking kid.

"H-hey, wait up!" the one-eyed dweeb called loudly, and the sound of complaining and body shoving followed closely. "Come the fuck _ooon_, Yuu—I'm actually really sorry 'bout this, man! We're still Besties, right?"

Kanda finally reached a spot where the people began to thin into smaller groups and then a couple of loiterers. "Fuck yes," he sighed in relief, wiping his forehead. Fucking body heat, messing with people at all the wrong moments.

Lavi hopped next to him, still shaking his injured hand. "Dude," he whined. "What do you do, crush bricks with your bare hands for fun or some shit like it?"

"Yes." The Japanese man sneered, crossing his arms. "Now what the fuck do you want? I got things t' do, asshole."

"Are you seriously chickening out?" the redhead asked, scratching underneath his headband with his healthy hand. "I mean, dude. Do you even know the details, for real? I think you should talk to Madarao a little more, dude."

Kanda took a good eleven seconds to just _look_ at the guy in front of him. The freakin' epitome of a Smarmy Bastard, he honestly didn't know how anyone could trust those—okay, _that_—laughingly green eye and that goddamn permanently smug expression. How did he hang out with this guy for so long without murdering him in cold blood, or without punching his other eye forever shut?

"Who the fuck are you?" he simply asked.

Lavi blinked. "Uh, I'm Lavi Ja—"

"No, asswipe," Kanda stepped up to the drummer, baring his teeth dangerously. "I mean, who the _fuck_ are you to tell me what the _fuck_ I should do? Who the _fuck_ are you to act like you know every little thing about me? Because, seriously, I forget your fucking first name once a day, loser."

"You forget everyone's first name once a day—"

"That isn't the point!" Kanda raged, lashing his hand out and grabbing the asshole's neck. He forcibly brought the younger man closer, close enough where they could touch fucking _noses_. "You don't know shit about me, Cyclops. You think you know every fuckin' thing, but guess what? You _don't_. We're friends, but we'll never be _best_ friends."

Lavi garbled a little, tugging weakly at his wrist. "Y-Yuu," he gasped, furrowing his eyebrows.

Kanda let him go, disgusted. "Don't use my fuckin' first name," he said, and he pivoted on his heel towards what seemed to be a building with a bathroom. Now he _really_ had to take a piss, from sheer anger.

He stalked to the building, glaring nastily at anyone who even thought about looking at him, let alone tried to talk to him.

Opening the doors, he took a small moment to savor the cool air inside. It was, in fact, a bathroom specified for parks, and Kanda felt a little less angry at everything.

He sauntered to a urinal stiffly and unzipped his jeans just enough to allow him to shove his boxers low on his hips.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. "Fuck," he breathed, feeling better already.

_Zip._

His dark blue eyes snapped open at the sound of another zipper, and he turned to his side with a scowl.

Lavi grinned at him, his eye twinkling and his neck splattered with purple bruises. "Hey, dude," he said with his dick in his hand like this was completely normal. "Great day for'a piss, huh?"

"What," Kanda started slowly, narrowing his eyes. "the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

The drummer tried for his most innocent look, and then failed terribly. "Who, me?" he asked cheerfully. "Like I said, just takin' a piss, enjoying the view." He pointedly looked down at Kanda's own dick with a smirk, which was seriously not cool in at least every country in the world.

Except Italy, probably. Fucking Romans.

"When I am done," Kanda replied. "I am going to kick your fucking _ass_ until your grandpa barely recognizes you, Cyclops."

"Ha ha, yeah, like that time in seventh grade, right?" Lavi asked, chuckling. "Except, I remember it differently. Not that ya couldn't beat the shit outta me now, dude—those muscles are bulk bad, bro. It's just funny that you always say that, but we've only fought once. Well, twice, if you count today's domestic abuse." He laughed, his shoulders shaking.

What the _fuck_— "What the fuck are you on, dude?" Kanda demanded.

Lavi just smiled. "Your name is Yuu Kanda, no middle name," he replied. "Born on June 6th, 1966, in Tribeca, New York. You know enough Japanese to curse the shit outta some koozbane, but you're not as fluent as people think you are."

"Wha—"

"You play guitar pretty great, but you know you could do better," he continued. "Your favorite song is Bohemian Rhapsody, even though you don't want people to know, 'cause that _is_ a little embarassin' bro." Then, the redhead paused, running his tongue over his likely dry lips. "You lived in New York for thirteen years, and moved to Virginia after a year of the foster care system. You failed sixth grade and Tiedoll nearly killed you for it. You have a tattoo on your left pectoral that you got four years ago. You judge Chinese food and never eat more than what makes you full, and you _clearly_ work out a lot."

Kanda stared at him, his mouth hung open in shock.

Lavi wasn't done, either. "You've got a crush on Al, you respect Lenalee more than anyone else, and you call your great-uncle in New York once every two months," he said with a quirky smile. "Tokusa used to be a mega good friend, same with Madarao. You don't really like the idea of being in a band, but you do it because Lenalee's into it. You _do_ have a best friend, and his name is Karma. But, that's all I know."

By this time, the two were both well done with urinating, but with Lavi's speech and Kanda's intense disbelief, they were pretty much just standing there with their dicks in their hands like a badly planned circle jerk.

"…" Kanda cleared his throat, looking away in embarrassment. "How the fuck, dude?" he asked, admittedly really curious on how the living hell anyone could know that much.

Lavi laughed, patting his shoulder. "You might not think I'm your best friend," he said with a grin. "But you'll always be mine. I don't know everything about you, and I probably never will. But, I know enough to make sure you're doin' okay." He laughed. "And you are really fuckin' predictable, dude. Besides, you didn't even deny it when I said you had a crush on Al, you fuckin' loser."

The Japanese man felt his face heat up in what could've been a blush, but then he looked at the hand on his shoulder. "What the _fuck_ man—you didn't even wash your hands, you dork!" he exclaimed, smacking the appendage away from his body. "Oh _grodie,_ cock germs."

"What, wittle ittle Yuu's afraid of a little dick bacteria?" Lavi mocked, smirking evilly. He pressed his hand to the other man's facial cheek, cackling at the snarl and generally bad reaction he got in return. "C'mon man, 's not like you've got a vagina or something!"

Kanda took about five steps back in rapid subsequence, hurriedly putting his dick back in his boxers and pulling up his pants. "That is fucking _disgusting,_ and I am going vomit now," he announced, faking a gag. He looked down at his hands. "But I gotta wash my hands mad rad _bad_."

Lavi had done the same with returning his cock to its proper place, and wriggled his fingers. "If I put my hand over Brit's mouth, would it be kinda like a blowjob?" he asked with a leer.

"What? No, shut up." Kanda shoved his shoulder on the way to the sink, deciding it was only far to spread the dick germs to the jerk that started it.

After another five minutes of being hygienic and Lavi just being a general annoyance with bad jokes, the duo walked back outside into that Southern heat.

"Wait," Kanda stated, stopping on the way to the crowds. Lavi also paused and turned to him with a curious look. The dark-haired man rubbed the back of his neck, scowling. "I, I really do forget every hoser's first name…but I still know your last name."

Lavi looked bewildered for a minute, until the expression bloomed into a wide smile. "That's a lot more than most people," he replied.

_Yeah,_ Kanda thought, looking away. _It is._ He was pretty aware that he was a total dick for no valid reason, and it never really bothered him until moments like these.

"I'm not try'na be gay," Lavi said, raking his fingers through his thick red hair. "Or anything like that, but I really do care for you, man."

"…Thanks."

"No prob'." He clapped his hands together, grinning. "Now, _Third_ might be on their last song, so we gotta get back pronto, dude."

"Yeah, like cereally," Kanda took off at a fast paced trot, only to almost slam into some asshole standing in front of the two young men. "Ach—what the fu—"

"Ah, sorry lad," a thickly accented voice replied with a start, and Kanda cursed his luck. _Another fucking Englishman? What the fuuuuck_.

"Yeah, yeah," he replied gruffly, catching a good look at the man he bumped into. A tall, handsome white dude with a sort of mid-length wavy brown hair smiled back at him, his teeth way too perfect for the whole European stereotype. "Are you ever gonna get out of the way?"

That's when he opened his eyes, and Kanda felt like he was getting some sort of Déjà vu. There was something about the color and the clarity, like he knew someone with eyes so off-blue they were gray. And that horribly intelligent _gleam _was also crazy familiar_, _what the fuck.

"But, of course, lad," he replied with a smirk. "Just tryin'a catch a ganda' at th' events. You boys in'na band ye'selves?"

"Yeah," Lavi answered this time, also, gazing curiously into the man's eyes. "We're goin' up some bands after this." He scratched his head, just as confused as Kanda. "This might be'a weird question, but who are you?"

The man looked a little sad for a moment, but then shook it off with a smile. "You'll find out, I bet," he replied, shrugging. He stepped out of the way, winking. "Have a good morning, lads—I'll be rootin' fer ya, whoever you are ye'selves."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Unwilling to continuously bask in the creepiness that was that guy, Kanda shoved Lavi forward into the crowd. Then began the familiar task of plowing through humans for the sake of being a dick, and that was enough to distract Kanda from the weird British guy or the earlier events of the day.

Lenalee lit up in happiness when they made it back, and Allen flashed a smile at the two. "You guys made it just in time," the Chinese girl said loudly, grinning widely. "_Third_'s about to do their last cover of the set, and I bet it's gonna be awesome!"

"Sure," Kanda replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Allen pinched his arm roughly for no clear reason, so he reeled back in preparation to yell at him, but then the kid grinned.

"Welcome back, idiot," he said loudly, as is necessary in this goddamn noise. "I was a bit frightened you were scared, and that you wouldn't come back."

Kanda punched his shoulder lightly. "Fuck you, asshole," he replied in a near shout.

Finally, he looked up at the stage at _Third_, with Madarao readjusting his microphone idly.

"Now we're on our last song," he said lowly, looking up at the audience. "An' I'm real glad it'sa day of cover songs—'cause this song is so fuckin' perfect for someone I know, we couldn'ta fuckin' wrote it." He waited for the wave of laughter to die down, and continued, "So, this guy knows who he is. I want him to listen to me sing, and I want him to get his head out his ass with th' seriousness."

"I love that saying!" Lenalee cried.

Madarao turned and looked at Tokusa, nodding once.

Tokusa grinned and cracked his fingers.

And then he played the synthesizer with more precision than he'd ever shown before.

Kanda blinked. The notes were really familiar in a recent sort of way, instead of the usual seventies mishap kind of way.

Kiredori leaned back and thumbed the same chords as the synthesizer, the sharp sound of the guitar crawling against the thick, prominent melody of the keyboard. Goushi beat the bass drum after a few seconds of the initial instrumental, tapping the tom seconds later and leaving Madarao to bring it all together.

"_I get up,_" he crowed into the microphone. "_And nothin' gets me dooown—you got it tough? Huh, I've seen the toughest soul around.  
And I know—buddy, just how you feel,  
But you gotta ro-o-o-oll with th' punches,  
To get to what's real!_"

"_Oh can't you see me standin' here,_" the audience shouted along to the popular Van Halen song, with the lyrics still fresh in everyone's mind as the song was released only a year ago. Kanda stared ahead, almost disbelieving in his expression._ "I got my back against the record machiiine!_"

"_I ain't the worst that you've seen,_" Madarao continued, his amber eyes roving over the audience. "_Oh, can't you see what I mean? Yeah, might as well jump—_"

"_JUMP!_" the rest of the band shouted. The Mongolian man nodded. "_Might as well jump—go 'head and jump—JUMP! Go 'head and jump!  
Aah-ooh, hey you! Who said that?  
Buddy, how you been?_" He looked at the audience very pointedly, and Kanda was a little glad that he couldn't be found amongst the masses. "_You say you don't kno-o-o-oow,  
You won't know, until you be-gin!_"

"_Oh can't you see me standin' here,_" Lenalee and Lavi were singing along as loudly as possible, and even Allen looked like he wanted to tap his feet to the music. "_I got my back against the record machiiine!_"

"_I ain't the worst that you've seen,_" Madarao repeated. He looked in Kanda's general area, and the Japanese man got a little uncomfortable. "_Why can't you see what I mean? Yeah, might as well jump—_"

Kanda looked at him, and he heard the screams of the people surrounding him, celebrating music as it should be—as a welcomed force that sweeps through one's soul, one's senses, and one's world. He glanced at the gleeful faces of his bandmates, their bodies vibrating if not outright in motion with the sound pouring from the speakers. This audience, as stifling and uncomfortable as it was, was a reminder of what being in a band was about—that it was more than just the fame, or the money, or even the escape.

_You know,_ a certain asshole once told him some time ago. _You don't really need an instrument to make music. But, it helps when you do—so you can share what you feel with the rest of us unfortunate jerks._

So, maybe, his head was in his ass.

Yeah, Kanda knew he was stubborn to a ridiculous fault, and acerbic to a painful degree. He knew his weaknesses and his strengths, his pros and his cons.

However, he didn't know what could make a person like him, let alone love him. He had no idea why Tiedoll cared so much, why Zu was so glad when he called, or why Chaoji held him on such a high pedestal. Tokusa was so civil when they spoke it was like nothing changed in the years of no contact. Madarao, while a dick about it, still cared enough to want him back, even if for another's sake. Lenalee adored him, Lavi cared almost too much, and Allen seemed a lot less standoffish when they talk—and he had no idea why.

He was Yuu Kanda, a nineteen-year-old asshole, in his honest opinion.

But, he was also human.

"Lenalee!" he yelled into the singer's ear, causing her to topple over a bit in surprise. He caught her arm, and she looked up at him dazedly. "Lenalee, about the whole last song shit—"

* * *

"You know, I'm thinkin' that was too subtle," Tokusa said with a grin, taking a sort of perverse pleasure in the annoyance that filtered through the front man's normally emotionless eyes. "Yeah, I'm not sure if he got it, Mada'. We should do anotha' song describin' the situation perfectly."

Madarao thumped his head against the wall of the building they stood next to, obviously trying to drown out the pianist's voice. "Shuddup, 'Kusa," he groaned.

"Hey, I'm just sayin'."

"Seriously," Kiredori spoke up, not looking away from his Slinky. Who the fuck plays with Slinkies in this day and age anyway? Creepy little fuckers, that's who. "Shuddup, Tokusa. You get on my fuckin' nerves, man."

Tokusa _seriously_ had an issue with his best friend's little brother-that-could-totally-be-his-little-sister-too. If there was a definition for Brat with a Need for a Major Attitude Adjustment, the description would simply be 'Kiredori,' and would have synonyms with 'Gender Confusion' or 'Identity Crisis.'

"I will kick yer little insecure ass, ya dick," the light-haired man replied with a smile. "And besides, I totally fergot that I wasn't even _talkin' t' ya_. Wow, what'ta surprise!"

"So insane," Goushi agreed, reading what seemed to be a magazine for teenage girls.

Well, he was Goushi. He was nearly seven feet and probably weighed slightly less than a steel beam. If he wanted to read Seventeen Magazine, then who was Tokusa to stop him?

Of course, this didn't mean he couldn't make fun of him about it. "Yo, Goushi, whaddaya readin'?" he asked, trotting up to the large man. Goushi grunted in response, which Tokusa took to mean he was still in the table of contents. He looked up at the cover, resting his chin on the drummer's thick belly. "'Five Ways to Catch a Man?' Sweet, man—lemme check that out."

"Huh? No." The drummer shook his head, sneering. "Fuckin' moron. It's not even detailed right."

"Are you even gay?" Kiredori asked Goushi, who looked at him with a peculiar 'Are you _kidding_ me' expression.

"Hell no," Goushi replied, huffing. "But its mad interestin' t' see what girls do t' get ya. Like, seriously, it says here t' cut ya jeans—who the fuck wants to cut their jeans?"

Tokusa looked around at the people milling around, of which half had ripped stonewashes and the sort. "Yeah, 'cause that's totally unnatural," he replied, rolling his eyes. He halfheartedly tried to wrap his arms around Goushi, knowing damn well he was too slight to pull that off. "What else does'it say?"

"Girls look like clowns 'cause apparently that's attractive or something," Goushi threw the magazine to the side, where it hit the ground in a billow of red dust. "That's stupid as shit. Let's get some food or somethin' assholes."

Madarao turned to look at him, almost offended. "I need'ta see the _Black Ordah_ play," he replied, crossing his arms. "I won't miss it."

"Madarao, they're numba' fourteen," Tokusa reasoned, releasing Goushi. "We were numba' ten. There're gonna be, like, three bands before them while ya standin' here. C'mon, losa'—we're getting' food."

Kiredori slid his right hand through the Slinky, turning it from inexplicably entertaining household toy to nearly fashionable jewelry. Curse the teenager's fashion intuition. "Come _oooon_ Madarao," he whined in that fucking falsetto that was proof that even puberty couldn't stand him, so it ditched him halfway through. "I'm hungry, and this shit's so _borin_'."

The singer seemed conflicted, so he did what he always did and looked at Goushi.

"Should I?" he asked.

Goushi shrugged. "Why not? Get food, ignore these shitty bands until we get back to our favorite shitty band, everyone wins," he replied.

Tokusa pumped a fist in the air victoriously. Thank god for Goushi and Madarao's odd agreement relationship thing. Without it, many days they would be playing crappy songs on stage and probably would not be nearly as far as they are today.

"…All right," Madarao ceded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Where're we goin', then?"

"…" Tokusa and Kiredori shared a quick look. If they didn't know immediately, then the man might start to resist again. "We'll find a place." The pianist insisted. "I'll drive, just get in th' van."

* * *

"Oh, I'm a slick dick—I left m' wallet." Kiredori batted his eyelashes at Tokusa, who was seconds away from sneering. "'Kusa, could'ja possible pay f' me?"

"You little _bi—_"

Madarao shook his head. "I'll pay ya back," he said calmly, trying to hold off the spilling of blood. "Just, just do it, man."

Tokusa scrunched his face in disgust, stuffing some more fries into his mouth. "Fug-juu, Key'a'doowee," he mumbled through all the food in his mouth.

After twenty minutes of searching, they found themselves in some magical restaurant called 'Waffle House' that specialized in, well, waffles. But Tokusa didn't actually trust waffles, so it didn't really matter if he got a burger.

"—why're we back in this restaurant, eh? Bloody house o' waffles, bunch'a commies I'm dealin' with!" some guy with a thick English accent sounded from the entrance.

Tokusa looked up and glanced over at the door, a fry hanging from between his lips. Three people, all utterly familiar as members of _Noah's Ark_, walked down the aisle to find a seat. With a small amount of glee, the light-haired man realized the closest empty table was behind Goushi and Madarao's bench, and so he waited for them to take their seat.

"I'm tired'a all this breakfast food," the dark-haired synthesizer player of the band whined, his accent causing all sorts of dirty thoughts to fill Tokusa's mind. He had a thing for cute accents, what could he say? "I demand we go to'a, uh, uh. A _MacDonald's!_"

"First of all, McDonald's is gross," the young guitarist of the band retorted, snippy. "And nobody's forcing you to eat a fucking pancake. That's right David, you _can_ think for yourself."

"Bugger off, Rhode," the other, blond pianist huffed. "If Davie wants t' go t' MacDonald's, then I say we go to'a bloody MacDonald's."

"Don'cha love th' stress," Tokusa whispered into Kiredori's ear. "Tha' they put on th' _Mac_? So unnecessary, but so hot, man."

Kiredori looked at him weirdly. "I'm seventeen," he whispered back. "And you're, like, twenty. It'sa little weird t' talk about shit that makes you hot. Creep."

Tokusa made some choking motions with his hands. "You're dead, ya little punk," he hissed. God he hated this kid.

"Shut up Jasdero. Anyway!" Rhode, the tiny yet dangerous-looking guitarist of _Noah's Ark_, snapped, crossing her arms. "We need to make this quick—Tyki will kill us if we miss the _Black Order_."

This got Madarao's attention very clearly, and even Goushi paused his roving of the plastic menu in his hands.

David groaned. "What do ya mean, _Tyki_? Ol' Man Earl is on our _arses_ to keep an eye on the _Order_," he huffed, and Tokusa watched him rub his temples like he was three times his age. "Tyki's jus' the fangirl slash officer that makes it happen."

"Why is that, ya think?" Jasdero questioned, twirling a lock of his long blond hair in his fingers.

"Well, Jazzy, when a grown man loves a teenage boy—"

"Budge up wit' that, twit!" Jasdero pouted. "I mean, why's the _Earl_ so fixed on the _Black Order_? Surely he's not gonna offer 'em a deal."

Rhode sighed exaggeratedly. "I don't know about that one," she said. Then, lowering her voice to a mere whisper, she leaned in conspiringly, and _Third_ nearly leaned in with her. "My dad told me some mad interesting stuff, though."

The table was _digging_ into Tokusa's stomach with how intensely he was listening in, and Kiredori's ears were twitching with anticipation.

"Apparently the third judge is the _Musician_," Rhode explained to her bandmates, seemingly unmindful of the band behind their booth eavesdropping.

David blinked. "Who's that?" he asked, taking the words right out of Tokusa's mouth—albeit with a better accent.

"You don't remember the _Musician_?" the guitarist demanded, offended. "Dude, he was, like, super hot only five years ago. He's still hot—he was just a special guest in this tour for HIV last month, it was all over the news!"

Jasdero shook his head incredulously. "Wait, wait, _wait_, you can't possibly mean the _Musician_, Musician!"

"Neah Walker, dude."

Madarao choked a little, and Goushi patted his back immediately.

David leaned forward, amazed. "Neah bloody Walker is here?" he demanded. "That, that's fuckin' amazin'! _He_'s fuckin' amazin'! Bloody hell, that man's me idol if I ever had one!"

_Mine too,_ Tokusa thought, also incredibly excited at the thought of meeting the _Musician_. The _Musician_ was infamous for being somewhat of a social recluse, or at least he started this strain of antisocialism five years ago. Getting an interview or coverage with the guy was easy as shit before then, but then something changed—he just stopped showing up in the musical media. He canceled tours, he refused concerts; the whole nine yards. It was really weird, actually.

His music was still fucking incredible, though—he kept cranking out the singles for this period of time, even though his distinctive music kind of transformed from a mod-culture, pop sound to this sort of heavily instrumental anguished melody with lyrics that weren't exactly happy.

And, yet, somehow, his music was better this way.

Tokusa fell in love with the _Musician's_ angst, with his sobbing melodic soprano and his striking piano compositions unburdened by the electricity of today. Neah Walker was especially notorious for his refusal of using a synthesizer, even though most musicians of his generation and prior, even, accepted the electronic keyboard and utilized it nicely, including the Beatles.

"But," Jasdero continued. "What does that have to do with th' _Black Order_?"

_Third _tensed ever further, wary of her next words.

"Well, I don't really know," Rhode admitted. "My dad said something about soap operas and how much he loves drama, but you know how my dad gets when he starts talking about stupid shit."

"Oh god," David groaned.

"It _never ends_," Jasdero whined.

"I know right? At least he's not your dad—he's not even good at being a dad, I mean on _Family Matters_—"

And so the three teenagers fell into a state of easy chatter, but a taut string was still pulled around the progressive metal band of _Third_, each member undeniably tense and curious of the information they just learned.

"What's _up_ with th' _Black Ordah_," Madarao whispered, bringing a cup of water to his lips.

Tokusa rubbed his hairless chin. "I dunno," he replied. "But, I'm mad curious on what the 'drama' between the _Black Ordah_ and the _Musician_ is." Extremely curious, in fact.

"I don't get it," Kiredori furrowed his eyebrows. "What does th' _Black Ordah_ have t' _do_ with th' _Musician_?"

"Great fuckin' question," Goushi grunted. "And we'll prob' never get an answer, so can we please ordah some fuckin' food?"

Just like that, the string snapped, and everyone felt like they could relax again.

Or, at least, physically. Tokusa didn't know about the others, but there was something _really_ odd about this entire event—this "battle of the bands."

_There is_, he thought. _A disaster waiting to happen_.

Sometimes, he was psychic.

* * *

It was leaning on dusk when it was finally time for the _Black Order_ to play, the clock striking five-ish six according to Lavi, and the air cooling with the Southern night. The sky began to bleed into a soft purple, and Allen Walker had an itching feeling at the back of his head.

"Brat, pay attention," Kanda ordered, smacking the back of his head. Maybe the itch was a premonition of the action? "Stop checkin' out the sunset like you do me, and set your shit up."

Allen blinked repeatedly, shaking his head. "Oh right—wait, did you just—"

Kanda smirked, gathering his loose hair into a ponytail.

Allen rolled his eyes, a smile on his lips. It was only a matter of time until Kanda began playing the game as well, as the English teen was starting to feel like he was seriously seducing the older bloke, instead of pseudo-seduction. Or, something like it.

"—and don't forget the thirteen second wait after Kanda starts," Lenalee was speaking quickly, trying to get all their bases covered in the short five to ten minute set up time. Lavi nodded at the appropriate times, but it was clear from his languid scratching of his stomach that he probably wasn't listening. "And when we play _Gold_, remember to keep it simple unless you for seriously serious know what to do!"

"Mm hmm," Lavi hummed, wandering towards Allen with a grin. "Hey babes—you ready?" He eyed the distressed-looking dark grey synthesizer on the stand, and the British boy laughed.

"I'm generally always ready," Allen replied with a wink. "But, I do need to connect a few more cables—so, if you will?" He waved one pale hand at the redhead, the other holding a few amplifier cords and probably a microphone.

Lavi took a step back, his hands in the air. "Go on, sweetheart, I ain't stoppin' you," he said, snickering.

Allen rolled his eyes and turned around, separating the wires appropriately before bending over to plug them in correctly. Almost immediately he felt the heavy gaze on his backside, and held back a weary sigh. "Lavi, don't you have a drum set to tinker with?" he asked, clicking his tongue.

"I don't know if we have the same drumming in mind—"

"Lavi!" Lenalee shouted. "Quite being a creep for ten seconds and get to the trap!"

"Indeed, _Lavi_," Allen mimicked sarcastically, looking over his shoulder at the sheepish redhead. He winked. "We can work out your definition of drumming later—right now, beat the drums."

"Later, I'm beatin' off," Lavi announced immediately, smiling cruelly at the grimace that overtook the white-haired teenager's face. "C'mon, make a sexier face. What am I supposed to imagine then while I jerk?"

"This." Allen held up his middle finger. And then thought about it. "Rotate on it, if you will."

Lavi laughed uproariously, his hands on his hips as he tilted his head back. "You are amazing," he said, wiping his eye. "I love you so much."

"Lovely. Now, please, carry on—we have work to do."

Shortly after that, Lavi trotted to his drum set, and Lenalee harped at him a few more times before Sherman sauntered onto the stage. Once the man made his presence known, the band members all straightened and gathered around him in some way.

"Good evening, _Black Order_," Sherman greeted with as much disdain as he could stuff into his voice without becoming a calzone. "You know the rules, correct? No excessive profanity, minimum three songs, maximum six." He eyed the group, keeping his gaze on Allen a little longer than necessary. "I wish you the best." He surely didn't sound like it.

The man pivoted on his heel and stalked towards the microphone, giving the pretty obvious cue that maybe they should scurry into place at this point.

Allen squared his shoulders, ready to resign his life behind the synthesizer, and then Lenalee grabbed his arm.

"Wait guys," she said. "Let's just get this one thing clear. If we don't rock this stage, we don't stop rocking for life or something." She held out her hand, palm facing up. "Let's have fun with this, and do the best we can."

Lavi placed his hand over the girl's dainty palm, confident in his stance. "Don't bag us, Girlie," he scoffed. "We're the _Black Order_—"

"Our standard is excellence, or so I thought," Allen stated, giving a sort of half-smile that felt weird on his lips. His stomach rumbled nervously, but he placed his red hand atop Lavi's regardless.

Kanda rolled his eyes. "This is the gayest shit—" he grumbled, but Lenalee forced his hand into the group.

"Let's kill this audience," Lavi whispered, and those were the words to bring them together. It was a certain tug at his heart, Allen felt—the feeling of being included in such an evolved group of people with a common interest.

It was a…_queer_ experience, if nothing else.

"_All the way from Hampton, Virginia_," Sherman was speaking into the microphone, his amplified voice reverberating against the stage deeply. "_We have the young, ace, mixed mutt group, the_ Black Order!"

_I thought this was a concert competition,_ Allen thought with a quirked eyebrow. _Not a kennel_. Well, regardless, it couldn't be changed. Sherman Camelot had something against their ragtag group for some likely stupid reason, but what could they do? File a complaint?

Lenalee stepped to the side of Sherman, holding out her hand expectantly. The long-haired VJ stared at her like she was stupid, but the girl coughed very loudly from the back of her throat.

He gave her the microphone, if not with extreme reluctance.

"Thanks!" Lenalee exclaimed, and then she tapped against the corded metal of the tip. "Testing, _uno, dos, tres_, bop, bop." She looked around the audience, hands on her hips. Bringing the microphone to her lips, she shouted, "Can you hear me?"

The crowds screamed their affirmation, and Lenalee shrugged.

"Hey," she said. "Just makin' sure, dudes."

Sometimes Allen had no idea how the Chinese girl could be so amicable to people she'd never met. And, not 'detached friendly' like himself when introduced to a new person, but more 'genuine friendly,' like she was actually trying to form a relationship with these people.

"Anyway," Lenalee continued, fixing her shirt and adjusting her bangles. "Uh, if you weren't here yesterday, then you need a mad good excuse, 'cause you missed out on some _excellence_, and you also missed out on my super radical singing. Well, you'll be able to hear it again, but, it's the thought, okay?" She huffed, and the audience cheered anyway like she said something of importance. "Well, we're the _Black Order_, from Hampton, like Mr. Camelot already said. I'm Lenalee Lee, the wonderful vocals."

She pointed at Kanda, grinning. "That's Mr. Grumpyface McAsshole, also known as Yuu Kanda," she explained. "He plays guitar, and lemme tell you—his riffs can get _insane_."

Next, her finger was jabbed behind her shoulder. "This ginger in the back behind the trap is Lavi—we're not allowed to tell his last name," she said exasperatedly. "For _some reason_, he wants to be the most mysterious member."

"Well fuck him," Kanda growled. "I didn't want my first name told, Jesus Christ."

"Mr. Grumpyface is grumpy again," Lenalee sighed, and the people below laughed. She shook her head. "Anyway, we're moving on." She pointed at Allen himself, and the Englishman was prepared for another odd description for himself. "This is the coolest looking member of the band, Allen Walker. He's also sweet on a synth, and _British_. How fancy is that? I mean, dude, he speaks like he's hosting a game show—except _all the time_."

Allen smacked his forehead. "Good Lord," he whispered.

Once the amusement of the audience died down to a low level, Lenalee plowed on, but hopefully to the point of this entire affair. "Okay, enough with intros," she said sternly. "It's time to start with what you've come here for." She turned around. "Kanda, make it happen at the count of three."

"One!" Lavi shouted, blatantly itching to start drumming.

"Two," Allen said loudly, arms crossed calmly.

"_Three_!" Lenalee shouted, and Kanda picked a long, languid series of chords almost instantly. Lavi tapped the rim of the cymbal on the ticking seconds of ten, and thumped his foot against the bass drum pedal steadily once the guitarist strung out a certain part of the consistent melody.

Lenalee tapped her foot against the stage, nodding carefully to the music.

"_Hmmm,_" she began humming, closing her eyes. "_Tongue-tied, I'm short of breath, don't even try…  
Mmm, try a little harder…_"

_

* * *

So far,_ Lavi thought at the end of their harried rendition of _Saints_, wiping his forehead. _So good_.

Of course, that was putting it lightly. While they did have a pretty intense practice for a group that was generally unprepared, nobody could hold it against them that they were, in fact, _nervous_, and that they were still kind of unprepared.

Personally, Lavi _almost_ missed his count on Saints, and thank god that he didn't in the end.

Although, the audience's reaction to the novelty song had been priceless if not absolutely hilarious.

They were all, "Are these Koozbanes serious? Like, this isn't a joke?" and Lavi was very much so, "Ha ha, nope, dudes—we're surprised it's serious, too."

But, anyway.

By this point, Lavi mused with a stretch of his abdominal muscles, they had completed three songs with little mishap, much to everyone's surprise. Allen played his part in _Gold_ perfectly, Lenalee's voice was flawless, and Kanda's riffs were really fucking sweet, as per usual. Lavi was sure his drumming was the most triumphant, but he wasn't prone to getting his hopes up for a reason.

He placed his hands on his knees, ready to stand up—at least, he was ready until Kanda threw a glare at him to melt a fucking window. _Okay_, he thought with a frown. _I guess I will stay seated?_

Lenalee and Kanda shared a significant look, one that irked Lavi with its familiarity and closeness. It was an expression of two people sharing a common world, one that made outsiders seem more detached than usual.

Lavi kind of disliked the entire '_outsider_' feeling in general. He probably got it from his Grandpa, and maybe even from his urge to know everything.

"Okay," Lenalee spoke into the microphone, causing Allen to look at Lavi with an expression of sheer _confusion_ etched upon his handsome face. The redhead was, for once, unable to tell what the hell was going on either. "Sooo, I'm sure you loved our New Orleans cover, right?"

The audience had mixed feelings if the murmurs and spiking shouts were anything to go by.

Lenalee laughed anyway.

"Right." She looked to the side at Kanda once more. "Okay, so now we have a special treat just for you guys. Our guitarist, Kanda—he's pretty boss at the whole guitar schtick, if you wouldn't believe it." The girl cleared her throat, clearly a little nervous. "Now, for our fourth song—we'll be playing _Stairway to Heaven_, by Led Zeppelin. I hope you like it."

Lavi blinked. And then he blinked again. And then three more times in rapid subsequence. He turned to Allen, who shrugged as though he were also completely unaware of this turn in events.

She placed the microphone on the stand and secured it, but not before looking at Kanda and nodding.

Kanda strummed a couple of notes on Mugen, the tempo slow and almost unnatural, considering the man's usual tearing of the song's original speed.

Lavi stared at the Japanese man, transfixed on the precise movements of his right arm, and the slow dragging of his fingers along the neck of the admittedly gorgeous Fender Stratocaster, the silver of the neck flashing in the light.

"_There's a lady who's sure,_" Lenalee whispered into the microphone, her voice a low melody that almost washed over all who listened. "_All that glitters, is gold—and she's buying a stairway to heaven._"

Kanda scowled, roughly picking two more chords to accentuate the lyrics, and then continued with his careful symphony.

"_When she gets there she knows_," the young woman continued to sing quietly. "_If the stores are all closed, with a word—she can get what she came for_. _Ooh, ooh, ooh,_" she hummed into the mic, leaning forward. "_Ooh, ooh…and she's buying a stairway to heaven._"

Lavi, in all of his observations, could only come to one conclusion.

This was the one of the most beautiful things he felt he could hear.

As the song progressed, Kanda's tempo steadily rose, and so did Lenalee's voice.

"_Ooh, it makes me wonder,_" she sang lowly. "_Ooh, it makes me wonder…  
There's a feeling I get, when I look to the west  
And my spirit is crying, for leaving… _

_In my thoughts, I have seen,  
Rings of smoke, through the trees—  
And the voices of those who stand looking…_"

The drummer followed the quirks of the song, utterly intrigued at the procession of the classic rock cover. Kanda still quickened his pace, and Lenalee was singing at nearly her normal tone—which could only mean one thing.

_Allen_, he thought, looking at the entranced boy adjacent to himself. _I hope you are watching this—because you are about to see something amazing_. He just knew it would be.

"_Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow_?" Lenalee sang from the bottom of her stomach, creating a sound so intense it was near deafening. "_And did you know—your stairway lies on the whispering wind_?"

And she took a step back from the microphone, turning to face Kanda.

And there he was, with his hair in a severe ponytail at the back of his neck and his face contoured in a near permanent scowl that oddly reminded the viewer of his beautifully cut features. Kanda shouldered Mugen a little higher, sat up a little straighter, and frowned a little deeper.

And then he played the guitar.

Lavi, in all of his days, had never been so amazed as prior to this. Yuu Kanda was great, fantastic even at the instrument, but like earlier, the man only applied himself so much.

He saw, and heard, on this day—Kanda was _holding back_. A _lot_.

His hand was a near blur as he ripped through the infamous solo of _Stairway to Heaven_, a corner of his mouth tucked neatly between his canines. The sound tore through the speakers everywhere, infiltrating their ears and reverberating their bones.

A string snapped sharply, but Kanda continued on, squaring his shoulders with an air of confidence that would fool the smartest man.

"_And as we wind on down the road!_" Lenalee returned to the microphone, gripping the stand tightly. "_Our shadows taller than our souls! There walks a lady we all know—  
Who shines white light and wants to show,  
How everything still turns to gold!  
And if you listen very hard,  
The truth will come to you at last!  
When all are one and one is all  
To be a rock and not to rooooll!_" She dragged the last syllable out, just as Kanda slowed his furious playing to a tempo reminiscent of the beginning.

Lenalee took a deep breath. _"And she's buying,_" she whispered once more. "_A stairway…to heaven._"

She placed the stand back in its place and Kanda wiped sweat from his forehead. "Thank you," she said quickly into the microphone, and the reaction of the audience was incredible, but not completely unexpected.

The applause and cries of enthrallment came from all sides, including the stage as Lavi and Allen clapped harder than they probably ever clapped. At least, this was the hardest _Lavi_ had ever clapped for something.

Lenalee turned to the far right side, where the judges occupied their adorable little table and judged them for a living. "How did we do?" she asked, a little breathless.

Fou was still blinking. "That was amazing," she admitted, shaking her head. "Because, let's get real—when you guys did that _Saints_ shit, I was getting kind of iffy. But, Christ, that last one was, uh,"

"_Incrediblé_?" Galmar offered.

"Yeah, we'll go with that." But the small woman rolled her eyes anyway. "I'm giving you a nine, no issue, kids. I don't even _like_ Led Zeppelin and I'm still thinkin' it's bangin'."

"It's possible to not like Led Zeppelin?" Lavi asked aloud, and Allen shook his head, embarrassed. "I mean, dude. It's, like, _Led Zeppelin_."

"As we know, mate," Allen replied, and Lavi grinned.

Galmar was not as quick to answer positively. "While I did enjoy your _interprétation_ of _Stairway to Heaven_, I can't help but wonder why the entire band only played on, oh, _one song_," he said in such a pompous tone that Lavi wanted his country to get invade again. "I'll give you a, hmm, _seven_."

"Nine, seven,_" _Lavi said, frowning. "I guess it could be worst."

And then, his ESP set in.

"Personally, I give the band a _ten_," a thickly accented voice boomed from the side, and everyone in the area turned towards the alleged source with a shock. "Did I scare ye? Sorry 'bout that."

The man that he and Kanda had run into earlier that day trotted onstage, hurriedly attempting to flatten his curly brown hair. "Sorry I'm late," he said, grinning toothily. "Me plane landed a bit late if that makes any sense, and I jus' _had_ t' try this whole _Chik-fil-A_ hodge that everybody and their mum raves about." He laughed. "It's worth it, in any case."

Lenalee stared at the man, and Kanda was simply offended.

"Who are you?" the girl asked slowly.

The British man blinked. "Well, I guess I must look terribly different then," he mused aloud, rubbing his chin. He stuck his other hand out, smiling widely. "I'm th' third judge, lass—Neah Walker, also known as the _Musician_, at yer service."

Wait. _What_.

Lavi's eye almost bulged out of it's socket, because it was official that his life just got insane.

He was on the same stage as the _Musician_? He was being judged by the _Musician_?

He talked all freely and shit to the fucking _Musician_?

"Holy shit," he said, covering his mouth in shock. "Dude, it's—it's, Allen, are you seeing this?" He turned to the side, determined to see if Allen were actually seeing these events as they occurred.

When he saw the younger teenager, however—it kind of slipped his mind.

"Allen?" he asked, but the boy was stiff. Allen was backed up as far against the wall as possible, his red hand clenched over his mouth, and his eyes wider than should be natural.

"Um." Lavi coughed.

Allen seemed to hyperventilate.

Neah Walker noticed them, or rather, noticed Allen having a panic attack.

"Is the boy alright?" he asked, frowning. He stepped closer to the teenager, but Allen just breathed less efficiently than before. "Do we need t' call an ambulance?"

"No need," Sherman commented, stepping up from the stairs with a wide smile on his face. "You can check on him yourself—after all, he is your nephew."

Neah stared at Sherman. "Nephew?" He looked back at Allen, who was beginning to tremble. "W-wait, this, this is Allen?"

Then, in near slow motion, Allen's eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell over atop the synthesizer, knocking over the keyboard with a loud clatter and falling motionless to the ground.

Lavi could not blink for the life of him.

"What the _fuck_."

And Kanda could not have phrased the moment better.

* * *

OH MY GOD THIS CHAPTER IS FINALLY DONE

Like no seriously this was super difficult to find time to do. Like, _extremely difficult_. Luckily it is 16 thousand plus words. Please note that none of the chapters will be this length ever again, and to be honest the later chapters will be lucky if they break 11 thousand or 10 thousand.

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT LA LA LA KANDA IS NOT AS BIG OF A DICK AS YOU THOUGHT, AND LAVI IS MORE INSECURE THAN MOST PEOPLE ASSUME

So, anyway, life. College is such a bitch and I am experiencing so many roommate problems. I am not antisocial, but it is pretty easy for me to hate the shit out of most people. Living with people this amplifies that ability. Right now it is the first day of SPRING BREAK so I decided to not go to bed until I finished this chapter. DEDICATION FOR A DAY~

By the way, all the little interactions are going to make so much sense later, so yeah. :D You all should know there is a certain method to my madness, right?

Also, complaint time. DGM is mad dead—why? While I may hate the shit out of the manga right now, I thought the fandom would still be okay. Guess not :( so sad. I'd also be happier because whenever I go to the DGM section there is like tons more Poker Pair…but they all have fem!Allen, which is pretty grodie to me bro :o

The songs used are "Jump" by Van Halen, "Duke of Earl" by Gene Chandler, "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin, "Too Shy" by Kajagoogoo, and probably something else it is 5:30 in the morning and I haven't been to sleep in 32 hours due to midterms

I want to thank every. Single. One. Of. You. Especially the ones who know that I will update at some point, and do not get angry at me for trying my hardest. Thank you all so much for still sticking with this crazy fic, and I am working hard to get the next chapter out in two weeks. I wrote it on my arm, that is how dedicated I am to it, okay? But, really, thanks I seriously appreciate all of you

(Also, check out the antagonist poll on my profile if you haven't already—I'm an imminently curious creature, okay?)


	38. White Lines

_THIRTY-EIGHT_

December 11th, 1979.

Mana Walker, at the ripe, young age of thirty-six, could safely and surely say that he loved three people in this world.

One—his ex-girlfriend. She may have hated his guts more than any woman he'd ever known, but he loved her like the moon loved the sun, and so forth. After all, she did give him the one thing that gave his life actual meaning.

Next, his younger brother. Neah was cocky, famous, talkative, and a lot more prone to addiction than he would've liked, but he was still Mana's darling little brother. Besides, Neah was great for a quick comedy show during any family affair—the bloke was just that funny.

And, lastly, but most definitely not least—Mana Walker loved to mere _death_ his little boy.

"Allen—_Allen_," he scolded his son, who was apparently trying to skewer the dog with an iron fireplace poker. He loved that boy, but sometimes he fears that he'll have to send him to a behavioral school or something of the sort in order to counter his terrible attitude and stance towards life. "Drop that poka'! I keep on tellin' ye, the dog's done nothin' t' warrant ya _pokin_' it t' death!"

His beautiful little boy turned to look at him with wide gray eyes that reminded Mana more of himself than of Allen's elusive mother. "He bit me," the boy simply said, and Mana wished for the simplicity of childhood once more.

"Allen." The brown-haired man walked over to his son, choosing to plop in front of the boy on the floor. "The dog's'a mere pup—that's the way he's gonna play wi' ye. Do you try an' stab _all_ yer mates who hurt ye a li'l when you're playin'?"

Allen opened his mouth like he was going to answer _yes_, but then thought against it and shook his head. Mana sighed in relief—it would've been _pretty_ bad if he found out that his son was stabbing all of his friends over a hearty game of tag.

"But, Dad!" the nine-year-old whined, waving the poker about. Mana flinched at the sight of that thing—he needed to get it from his son's surprisingly tough grasp, and immediately at that. "It _hurt._ Aren't ye s'pose t' _fight back_ when someone _hurts_ ye?"

_Dear Lord, I need to do better._ "Al, I know ye are a li'l young an' all, but I'll give ye some words t' remember, all right?" Mana reasoned, grinning at the contemplation on his son's face. The boy scratched his reddish-brown hair, frowning at the ground.

"All right," he conceded.

Mana ruffled his hair. "Righty then!" he said exuberantly. "Mahatma Gandhi, a right fellow if ye ask me, said one thing some years ago that we all should hold to." He cleared his throat a little more dramatically than required, and Allen raised his eyebrows at the show. "_'An eye for an eye makes th' whole world blind.'_"

Allen stared at him. "…Okay?" he replied carefully.

Mana's face almost dropped. He had such a precocious kid, it was nearly ridiculous. "It means that ye shouldn't fight back everytime you're hurt, Al," he explained, grabbing his son in a loose headlock. Allen yelped in his hold as he struggled, which only made Mana rub his knuckles against the boy's scalp. "If ye keep fightin', then you'll keep hurtin', and who wants to live in'a place where everyone's hurt, eh?"

"Lemme go, dad!" Allen whined, dropping the poker, and Mana laughed loudly. "It right aches, it does!"

The gray-eyed man finally released his son, chuckling. "I bet it does," he retorted, standing up slowly. Allen pouted, rubbing his abused head. "Come off it, boy. You wanna hit me now?"

His son took one look at him and shook his head furiously. "If I hit you, then you're gonna hit me back, an' I don't want that," he explained in a voice that bordered on petulant.

"'Course ye don't," Mana agreed, patting Allen on the head. "But, perk up! We'll get some ice cream, alright? How's 'bout that?"

Allen narrowed his eyes as though suspicious. "Alright," he said, and his father swooped him up in his rather skinny arms. "Dad! Quit that!"

"Oh posh," Mana said, holding Allen close to his torso. The boy was a bit small for his age, and didn't weigh as much as the food he ate should've made him, but that was alright—he wasn't the buffest guy in the world himself. "Jus' lemme hold ye—y'ain't too old fer that, no?"

"Dad—!" Allen struggled once more. "I'm much too old fer pickin' up! Lemme down!"

"Not until we get that ice cream, alright?"

* * *

December 17th, 1979.

"I don't think I believe in Santa," Allen told Mana with a straight face. "'Cause m' friends say he ain't real."

Mana stared at his son, his beautiful baby boy. He loved Allen more than he loved _everything_, but this parenting business was starting to get a little crazy.

_Ooh boy, let's just wait until it's the teenage years,_ Mana thought with a watery smile. _This shite will be more than ridiculous by then._

"What makes ye think that ain't a thing like _Santee Claus_?" the father asked, cocking an eyebrow in question. "Yer mates might be lyin' t' ya if tha's th' only reason."

Allen shrugged, stuffing half a sandwich into his mouth in one fell swoop. "Dunno," he replied. "Just feels like he's not'a real person, I guess. I mean, ye don't believe in Commie-Yoo-Nee-Sem or whateva' ye call it—I might be the same, but wit' Santa."

Mana looked away, slightly embarrassed that his _son _of all people used a valid argument like that against him. "I don't believe in communism 'cause it's stupid," he explained so a child could understand. "Ya see, wit' communism, ye don't get presents, ye don't get t' see ye uncle, and ye don't get t' be happy. Santee? He let's all that happen—he's no Stalin, I'll tell ye now."

The brown-haired boy pursed his lips. "But m' friends said—"

"How 'bout this, Al," Mana interrupted, grinning widely. "You make ye Christmas list—"

"And my birthday."

"Right, and ye birthday list, and on Christmas—we'll see if Santee's gotten what ye wanted."

Allen, though, just could not let that be. "But, how do I know ye ain't the one who bought it?" he asked.

Mana chuckled, poking his son on the nose. "'Cause I ain't got th' money t' spend on ye this here winter, Allen," he replied. Of course he was lying—he was more than prepared to get whatever it was that Allen wanted for his and Christ's birthday. Working in the entertainment business was no joke, and paid fairly well for a single father in his opinion.

"Yer such a liar, Dad!" His kid was going to grow up a detective if he kept this up. "I can tell! Ye said that liars get gray hairs, and you've got some now!"

"Do not, ye little weasel!" Mana thought about it. "And our family has'a _hist'ry_ of prematurely gray hair, so _ha_!"

* * *

December 20th, 1979.

"_I'll be on th' plane in'na night o' so,_" Neah told Mana over the telephone, and the older brother nodded distractedly. "_So, be on the lookout fo' yer famous, awesome little brotha'! Ye can't _not_ recognize me—I'm th' _Musician_!_"

"Cute," Mana replied, smirking. He kept his eyes, though, on his son, who was staring at the white keys of Neah's old piano like they were going to attack him.

The old piano wasn't actually Neah's as much as it was _their_ father's, but Neah took it over and then left it at his brother's house. Mana, personally, wasn't really one for an instrument other than a good old fashioned harmonica, but he felt that it wouldn't hurt to let Allen try his hand at the piano.

So, far, though—it wasn't going too well.

"This is stupid," his son announced, jabbing at a particularly sharp C note with his pale fingers. "Dad, can I go t' th' park?"

Mana sighed, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with his palm. "Yer uncle is comin' ova' 'bout Christmas," he explained with an exasperated expression. Allen stared at him in a way that felt like the boy didn't particularly understand why he needed to know that. "And ye know _he's_ a famous musician or somethin'. I think he'd like it very much if ye could play him a quick tune on th' piano—ye know what I am tryin' t' say?"

Allen opened his mouth, but closed it with an audible click. "Fine," he grumbled, straightening his posture. His fingers tapped against notes with a gentle stiffness that belied his irritation, and Mana chuckled lovingly.

He really adored his son. "Y'ello?" he greeted once the phone was back on his ear.

"_Usin' me as an excuse t' get th' boy'ta play, eh?_" Neah sounded oddly amused. "_You sly shrew. What songs do he know? Did ye teach him any o' _me_ songs?_"

"I can't even play a note on that piano," Mana deadpanned. "How would I teach me son t' play any song on it when I don't know how t' play any song on it?" He sighed, scratching the back of his head. "But, I can only guess tha' he gets lessons from class. He's playin' _Canon in D Major_ right now, though."

Neah snorted. "_Tha's Canon in D _Minor_, twit,_" he replied haughtily. "_How's the kid s'posed t' get betta' when his old man don't even know his Pachelbel? Let's get real, here!_"

* * *

December 24th, 1979.

"Ye need t' move," Neah said heatedly, rubbing his temples with shaking hands. "I'm tellin' ya, Mana—this place just ain't safe anymore!"

Mana groaned, tapping the end of the cigarette within his fingers against the ashtray. "Ain't a damn thing wrong, here," he countered, resting his chin against an upturned palm. The scratchy hairs of his stubble brushed against his skin, and he rued the fact that he didn't shave his morning. "Yer just _paranoid_, Neah."

"With good reason!" his younger brother—a tall, handsome bloke with choppy brown hair that fell in curled locks around his face—raged, pacing around the living room. "The Red's've invaded _Afghanistan_ t'day! They've taken ova' most'a Europe, and now they're expandin' again—we need to get outta here!"

"They ain't gonna _touch_ the UK!" Mana retorted, sticking the cigarette back between his lips. "Ye know this—and I'll leave when they get as far as France, alright?"

"Ye crazy bastard—this is not that kinda matta'!" Neah plopped on the couch next to Mana, raking his long, pianist fingers through his hair. He looked at his brother with wide, dilated gray eyes. "Come wit' me t' th' States, Mana."

The older man blinked, bewildered. "I cain't—"

"You an' Allen, th' both'a ye—just, come wit' me t' New York," the musician continued, gesticulating wildly. "I'm, I'm goin' on tour! Ye can stay in me house in Staten Island—"

"New York seems pretty barmy on the telly, Neah," Mana replied, huffing. "I ain't goin' nowhere to put Allen's life in danger—ye _know_ this."

"I live in Staten Island!" Neah explained, furrowing his eyebrows. "That's not _barmy_—ye thinkin'a' _Manhattan_ or th' _Bronx_. I don't live in'na place where _I_ could die! Come on, now!"

Mana leaned back in his seat, smoke floating languidly in front of his face in constantly shifting shapes that he'd never truly understand. "There somethin' up," he stated calmly, staring ahead at his ugly wallpaper and kind of wishing he could change it. "I can feel it. Yer pushin' me too hard—do you owe a bloke some money?"

Neah stared at him. "I'm Neah _bloody_ Walker—I don't _owe_ money, I _swim_ in it," he replied so confidently that Mana almost _did_ feel stupid for asking that question. "I'm the bloody _Musician_—I don't hav'a damn problem, Mana." He clenched his teeth, narrowing his eyes. "I'm lookin' out fer ya, ye ungrateful bastard."

The English man huffed, unconcerned. "I know what's up," he replied. "_Ye are_. Yer higher than a bloody kite, I know it!"

"I _ain't_ on a trip, ye whack!" Neah insisted, but his hands were still shaking, his pupils were still dilated, and his white skin was paler than ever. Mana shook his head, blowing smoke from between his thin lips. He loved his little brother, but the man had some problems he needed to work out with himself and his morals. Being famous didn't give one the right to throw their lives away—at least that was _his_ philosophy. "I've done it once, and what's wit' ye? Ye hold it ova' me! Well, Mana? Ye cain't be all high an' mighty foreva'—"

Mana began to tune his brother out. Yes, he knew about the popularity of cocaine in the United States, and he knew about the lives of the rich and famous. So, maybe people can understand why he wasn't surprised to see his brother hunched over a table in the living room last year, a five dollar bill rolled in his fingers as he roved over lines of a thin white powder.

He was _very_ angry that he did that shite in his _house_ though—that was just _rude_.

"—Mana! _Mana_!" Neah snapped his fingers in front of his eyes, causing the man to jump in surprise. "Crikey, ye ol' twit—I was askin', what's this?" He waved a sheet of paper in front of him, an eyebrow cocked in question.

Mana plucked the paper from his brother's fingers, squinting his eyes to gaze at the words written just between the lines. "Ah!" he exclaimed, a smile stretching his lips. "It's Allen's letta' t' Santee—right cute, it is!"

Neah blinked. "Well, what does me nephew want?" he asked with his own little smile, taking the paper back. His gray eyes darted around the paper, and he hummed in thought. "He wants _Legos_?"

"They're quite popular wit' th' kids t'day," Mana explained with a grin. "And Allen loves t' build things so he can knock'em down again. Did I tell ye 'bout th' time he tried t' stab th' dog?"

"No, ye didn't." The musician continued to read the paper with his right finger eratically twitching against his thigh. "A trip 'round th' world…peace…no mo' commy-you-nee-sim…a bike…an' his mum." He cocked an eyebrow. "Ye've gotta real precocious kid 'ere, Mana. I love'im t' death, but who wants no mo' communism f' _Christmas_?"

"I've not the slighest idea, mate."

* * *

December 25th, 1979.

When Allen woke up that morning, he was sure that either Santa was pulling something funny or Dad forgot how to cook all of a sudden.

There was smoke trailing through his door, smothering his ceiling, and Allen got the feeling that something _really_ wrong was happening.

The boy, now ten years of age, slid out of bed in nothing but his pyjamas, and he snuck over to the door as though the smoke were a formidable opponent that could beat him up. Wrapping his fingers around the doorknob, his eyes widened at the heat that stuck to the metal.

But, regardless, he swung open the door, and was struck with a parallel world so different from his own.

_Hell_, Allen immediately thought, his throat itchy at the onslaught of smoke. _This is what Hell look likes. _The preacher at his church forever painted the image of a realm surrounded by fire, flames licking at every available surface, and smoke that billowed in thick clouds of sulfur.

It seemed that his home was now the place he feared the most, and that almost disturbed him.

"Dad!" Allen shouted, his eyes wide. The bedrooms of him and his father were both on the second floor of their Sutton townhouse, and at the moment only the stairs seemed to be a portal to the place he never wanted to go to. "Dad! _Dad_!" He stumbled in the direction of his father's bedroom, his eyes watery and his throat constricting his grasp for air moreso than the smoke.

He opened the bland, faded brown door.

It was empty inside, save for the furniture and the smoke.

Allen thanked God for that—perhaps his father made it outside, and hopefully his uncle wasn't here yet. He knew the man was due soon, but, he just prayed that now was not the time.

_Get outside, Allen!_ His mind alerted, and he hacked violently before falling to the floor, his head close to the ground. _Keep to the ground and crawl, but just get outside!_

Staying close to the floor provided to be a better answer, as the smoke levitated towards the ceiling and the ground was nearly okay. He crawled as quickly as he could to the stairs, unable to see and nearly unable to breathe. He was dying, he felt—but he had to get out, and see if his father was well.

Allen felt around for the steps, and nearly sighed in relief once he found them under his dirty fingertips. He turned around and crawled down the stairs backwards, making sure to keep his head close to the floor and hoped to the Lord that the fire would not creep up the banister and destroy him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his socked foot touched the ground floor. He hurriedly sat up and stumbled through the smoke, his eyes watery and holding his breath tightly.

"A-_Allen!_" he heard his father shout, and he almost breathed in relief. "_Allen!_ Where are ya, boy? Please, wake up if yer asleep!"

The fire surrounded him on all side, flames licking up the walls and devouring the wallpaper he once thought to be ugly. It crawled along the floor, destroying the creaky hardwood and obliterating the gray carpet. He realized, bleakly, that this fire was slowly erasing his home, and killing his life as he knew it.

And Allen fell to his knees, sobbing. He knew it wasn't the time to cry, nor the time to stop in his quest to reach safety—but he was just a child. He couldn't help his emotions, as extreme as they were.

Then, large hands grabbed his arms, and he looked up with a start.

His father looked down at him with what must've been the most beautiful smile to ever grace his handsome face. His hair was streaked with gray, soot spotted his white skin, and he looked as though he wanted to cry.

Allen reached up, touching his father's face with small hands.

Mana leaned in closer. "My beautiful boy," he whispered, pressing his lips to Allen's forehead. His stubble tickled, but the boy refrained from making a comment. "I don't know _what_ I would'a done if I lost ye."

"Dad—"

"Don't say'a word, Allen," Mana shushed him, lifting him up to his feet. He stood up as well, towering over the ten-year-old like the son of God he was, and grabbed his own son's hand. "Let's get out of here."

The man led him through the fire and the debris, and the foundation of the house seemed to deteriorate in front of their eyes.

It was when they were mere steps from the open doorway that it all came crashing down, in the most literal way possible.

A floorboard fell from the ceiling, smashing into Allen's face. He fell to his knees with an agonized yelp, a hand over his eye and his father freezing in panic.

"Allen, get up!" Mana shouted, grabbing his son. "Tha's a bit o' pain in comparison to what could 'appen if we stay in here! Allen, please, get up!"

Allen stood shakily, and looked down at his hand. Blood covered his white palm, and he could feel it sliding down his cheek and dripping from his chin.

"Allen!" Mana yelled. "Please!" His father then took matters into his own hands and picked the boy up, roughly carting him to the door. Larger, harder pieces of debris fell from above, threatening to bury them if they didn't move faster.

Mana reached the doorway when the second floor toppled under the weight of the weakened foundation, and started to crumble faster than anyone could have thought.

"Neah!" Mana shouted. "Take Allen!"

_Neah_? Allen thought dully, and he turned his eyes up towards the door. _Oh, my uncle._

His father pushed him out of the doorway into the snow-covered outdoors, and Allen screamed.

"_Dad_!" he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. "_Dad, no!_"

Mana was struck from behind by a heavy piece of foundation, and he fell to his knees. Parts upon pieces began to topple atop him, nearly burying his body in an array of fire.

Allen ran to his father's struggling body, stumbling all over the snow and snarling from the back of his throat. "Dad, get up!" he screamed, and he shoved his left arm into the wood in an effort to move the parts from atop his dad.

And the agony tore at his flesh, as well as his heart.

Mana looked up; his face contorted in a terrible parody of his former self, with lines portraying more pain than any uttered decibel.

"Allen," he yelled hoarsely. "Get th' hell away from 'ere! _Get away!_"

"Dad!" Allen sobbed. "N-no, I can't—" and arms encircled his waist, forcefully dragging him away from the fire, including his pained, mangled arm. "Wh-what is happenin'? Lemme go! _Lemme go_!"

"I'm sorry Allen," a deep voice tinged with the greatest amount of regret whispered into his ear. "I, I can't let you go."

_Neah?_ Allen looked around to see his uncle's heart wrenching expression of pain. _Why are you letting this happen? _

How could he just let his brother be buried so deeply in the tries of Hell?

Allen turned back to his father, furiously fighting his uncle's tough hold. "Let me go!" he howled, swinging his arms about and kicking his legs. "Please, me dad—"

"Loves you," Neah said once, and tightened his hold.

Mana looked up, tears streaming down his face. He weakly reached out an arm, and Allen froze.

"Happy Birthday," his father sobbed, his voice catching in his smoke rasped throat. "My beautiful baby boy." His body heaved with emotion, and saliva fell from his lips as the strongest man in Allen's world cried like a small child. "I love you," he said, and the fire crept up his clothes and licked at his bare skin boldly. "I love you, Allen. Don't cry, baby—smile."

Allen could only stare as his world came to a stuttering stop.

Neah held him tighter once more, and he buried his head in his nephew's brown hair. Allen could feel the tears falling from his uncle's cheeks, he could feel the heavy twitches of muscle in the man's surrounding hold.

"I love you," Mana said once more, and the doorway fell in on his prone body.

It was seconds later that the familiar wail of the fire fighters screeched down the road, and Allen, with a bleeding face and a grievously hideous arm, passed out in his uncle's arms.

* * *

January 1st, 1980.

Allen woke up to the thick smell of cigarette smoke.

It was a fairly familiar smell, as his father was a semi-frequent kind of smoker. His eyes snapped open at that—his father! "M-my f—" he tried to speak, but it felt much like he was attempting to drag a cat into a bathtub.

"Your dad is didn't make it."

Allen looked to the side, attempting to find the source of the voice. He couldn't see out of his left eye, and a grimace proved there to be bandages wrapped tightly around his head, most particularly his left side. His useful eye caught on to the most peculiar shade of red, and it all went downhill from there.

A man, large by some definition, sat next to his bed in this overly white room. His hair was wild, red, and very long—it framed the hard, handsome planes of his face, and a thin beard surrounded his severely displeased frown.

He looked at the boy with little emotion in his hazel eyes from behind his small, rectangular glasses—and Allen felt a shiver run down his spine.

"I hate to break it to you this way," he continued to talk, puffing on his cigarette like there wasn't a bedridden child lying limply next to him. "But it had to be done. How're you feeling, by the way? Need a drink? Vodka?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask.

Allen stared at him.

The man stared back, flask held out in waiting. "Yeah?" he asked again.

"I-I'm ten," Allen whispered, squinting. He immediately hissed afterward, for the left side of his face shot off in throbbing pain. "O-ow!"

"Yeah, I wouldn't do anything too crazy," the man said, shrugging. He put the flask back in his pocket. "You've got a really nasty gouge going down your face. The docs stitched it as best they could, but it's pretty obvious that you're gonna have that shit for the rest of your life." He smirked. "But, hey, maybe chicks'll dig that kinda thing when you're older. If you're into chicks when you're older, I mean."

Allen honestly did not know what this man was doing here. "Wh-who are you?" he asked as carefully as possible, finding it difficult to make his voice work as before.

The man blinked. "I didn't say anything earlier? Well, fuck," he huffed, crossing his arms. "My name is Marian Cross—you can call me Cross, or Beelzebub. I'm your uncle."

Well, that obviously wasn't possible. Beelzebub? "My _uncle_?" Allen asked, furrowing his eyebrows until the pain set in again. "B-but, my uncle has brown hair—"

"On your mother's side, nitwit," Cross snapped, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "I'm your mom's brother, kid, not your dad's."

"My mum?"

"Yeah, she _is_ a real person," Cross replied in a slightly mocking tone. Allen was seriously confused on why this grown man was talking down to a ten-year-old so cruelly. "She's also a complete fucking moron, so I won't hold it against you." He thumped his cigarette ashes into a coffee cup on the table next to him, and then scooted closer to the boy. "I'm your new legal guardian, kid."

Allen stared up at him, perplexed. What did he mean by legal guardian? What about his uncle, or his mum since she was so existing and such?

"You're probably thinkin', hey, what the fuck is this guy talkin' about?" Cross continued, reading his mind. "He can't possibly be my guardian! I've got an uncle and a mom out there too!" He sucked in a big drag from his cigarette, almost reducing the stick into ash completely. "Well, I'm the most able out of all those crazy others, not having any real obligations to anything else."

"B-but—"

"No, I can't vouch for your other uncle." Cross said immediately. "He immediately said no to guardianship. I can't blame him, either."

_He immediately said no_, echoed in the boy's mind. Allen turned away from the odd man, looking up at the white ceiling.

His father was dead.

His father was _dead_.

His father was _dead_ and his uncle didn't want him. His mother didn't want him, and some man claiming to be his mother's brother could just as easily not want him.

He felt as though his heart was being crushed within a strong grip, and yet his eyes—well, eye—stayed dry for the count.

Allen felt his fingers twitch on his left hand, and he looked down with a frown.

The entirety of his left arm was tightly wrapped in bandages and gauze. The tips of his fingers, as he could see them, were as red as dried blood.

"Oh, you noticed?" Cross said, motioning towards his arm. "Yeah, they had to do skin grafts on your entire arm, kid. You're lucky you still have the thing, after thrusting it into a fire like that."

Skin grafts? Allen had no idea what those even were.

His breath hitched, and the memory of his father's tears was the only thing that kept him from breaking down like a baby.

"C'mon, kid," Cross murmured, laying a heavy hand atop his head. He ruffled the hair there, and tried to smile. It was clear to Allen that this man had no business smiling to _anybody_. "It'll be okay. We'll go around the world, do all sorts'a shit. Don't…don't cry."

"I ain't gonna cry," Allen replied tiredly, looking up at the ceiling. Was it normal for a ten-year-old to want to die a little? Probably not, but he deserved a little credit. "I jus' wanna, wanna….I 'unno."

His supposed uncle frowned, retracting his hand. "Now that shit ain't gonna fly," he scolded. "If you're gonna hang with me, you're gonna have'ta sound a little more educated."

"Wha'?" the boy hummed, his eyes feeling heavy. He was going to fall asleep soon—he hoped the man realized this. "Educated?"

"I'm English-American, kid," Cross explained. "I can't stand the sound of someone butcherin' the English language, no matter who the fuck is talkin'."

Apparently excluding himself, but Allen was too tired to call out his hypocrisy. On the other hand—wow, a real, live American. He'd never thought that he would actually meet one in his life, and now he's apparently related to one of those crazy Americans.

"Tha's nice," Allen replied, and his left hand twitched without his notice. "Thanks."

He fell asleep with the small hope that he might not wake up.

* * *

January 3rd, 1980.

Cross hated to do this, but it had to be done.

"Walker?" he called out gruffly, poking his head into the hospital room a couple of floors below his nephew. He took in the bare, white space with his usual stance of discomfort, and walked in. "Are you awake?"

The man in question was lying like a corpse on his gurney, an IV hooked to his arm and a grimace stamped onto his face. "Well," he rasped, licking his dry lips. "I am now. What?"

Cross huffed, crossing the room to stand next to the bed. "We're leavin' in two days," he said, clearly disgruntled. He eyed the man, trying gauge his welfare. "You can always tell the kid bye, Walker."

Neah Walker froze, his dilated eyes snapping to the taller man. "Y'know I cain't," he replied weakly.

"Why?" Cross asked, cocking an eyebrow. He crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Listen, Walker—you might've forgotten this, but that kid up there? He's ten." He narrowed his eyes. "You may've lost your brother, but he just lost his _dad_. Maybe you should talk to him."

Neah glared at him, a scowl settling his features. "It ain't the right time," he replied with a growling undertone, which meant nothing to the other man.

"It's really fuckin' funny," Cross retorted, clicking his tongue in disdain. This is exactly the reason why he didn't want to deal with the man right now. "How _you're_ the one to decide the 'right time.'"

"Get outta me face with that shite!" Neah snapped, sitting up higher in his bed. Cross continued to stand there, unafraid of some poncey English pianist with more money and problems that he cared to, well, care about. "Who're _you_ to tell _me_ that what I'm doin' 's wrong! Ye think you _know_ me, Marian?"

"Nope," the red-haired man replied, rolling his eyes. "But I do know that what you're doin' is only gonna fuck everything else up in the future."

Neah sneered, fisting the sheets under his pasty white palms. "You don't know shite," he hissed, eyes flashing. "You will _neva'_ know _anything_."

"I'm a rocket scientist," Cross replied. "Not a genius." He checked his wristwatch for the time, and realized that it was edging close to six in the evening. It was near time for the kid's dinner, which was a traumatizing if not vaguely amusing thing to watch. "Well, I'm not gonna bring the kid to ya if you're going to act like a fucking retard."

"…" The brown-haired man looked at his hands, still clenching the white sheets. "It ain't th' time," he whispered, gritting his teeth.

"I don't fucking care," Cross said. "But just know—isolating the kid like this? It's going to come back and _bite you in the ass_. It doesn't even take a rocket scientist to tell you this."

Neah looked at him, his gray eyes shining with grief. "I know," he replied. "But it's better this way."

"No, it's not." But Cross dropped it. "I'm gonna leave my hotel number and my university's office number, and you're gonna leave me your home number in New York. If you don't go back home, then I'm going to expect you to call me and give me the goddamn number of wherever you are. When I leave my hotel, I'm gonna call you and give you the number of wherever we are." He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, having to go to the courthouse earlier in the day to finalize his guardianship. "You're gonna call me once a fuckin' month, Walker, and you're gonna stay up-to-date in this kid's life."

Neah seemed as though he wanted to argue, but decided not to. Good choice, probably the best one the man had made so far.

"Alright then," Cross turned around and walked towards the door. "See you, Walker. Wait," he looked back at the man, scowling. "Check yourself into rehab."

He left the room then, sighing.

* * *

February 10th, 1981.

Allen Walker, at the tender age of eleven, was having a midlife crisis.

"Aah!" he screamed that morning, hands flying to his medium length hair. "AAH! Cross—_Cross_!"

His guardian lumbered out of his room loudly, cursing up a storm as he stomped towards the bathroom. "What the fuck happened?" he yelled, his handgun haphazardly pointed at the shower curtain behind the young boy.

Allen pointed to his hair. "I'm…I'm _old_," he whispered, horrified. He grabbed a lock of auburn hair streaked rather straightly with gray, and motioned wildly towards it. "Look at it! I'm almost as old as you—_ow_!" He rubbed the back of his head, wincing.

Cross, with an expression of someone in extreme pain, pinched his nose and lowered his gun. "There is something seriously fucking wrong with you," he said evenly. He looked at the boy, obviously unfocused due to his lack of glasses. How he was going to shoot if he couldn't see was a mystery, Allen mused idly. "You aren't old."

"Yes I am," Allen replied, pointing at his hair again. "Only old people and liars get gray hairs."

"Liars? The fuck?" Cross squinted at him. "What the fuck ever, _anyway_. You aren't old. Didn't your dad have gray hair? I mean, I've never seen the guy in person, but I got a glance of a few pictures."

Allen flinched at the mention of his father, but thought about it. "Yeah," he replied slowly, but then straightened at the glare from his uncle. "I mean, _yes_. He did have gray hair…but not this much!"

Cross shrugged, placing the gun in the waistband of his jeans. "Maybe it'll stop graying at the point it is now," he said, patting around for his cigarettes. He cursed at his lack of success and smacked the back of the boy's head again. "Thanks for nothing, little asshole. Now I have to go back to sleep without a smoke thanks to you."

The eleven-year-old, still looking at himself critically in the mirror, hummed in reply. "Okay," he said, touching his hair in random places.

His uncle left the room with a loud scoff, and Allen ignored it. The man was very fond of being dramatic.

His thick, ugly scar trailed down his face and over his eye, and he frowned at it before returning to the culprit of the moment. His hair, a thick yet silky reddish-brown, was slathered with random locks of gray, which kind of made his head look like a red-velvet cake with vanilla frosting—but maybe that was a bad comparison.

Allen's stomach grumbled loudly. _Or not_, he thought, pausing in his poking of his hair.

Hesitantly turning away from his reflection, he wandered towards the small kitchenette in their tiny, temporary Scottish apartment.

Maybe Cross was right—maybe it wouldn't gray anymore than this.

* * *

June 6th, 1982.

Cross looked at the boy sleeping in the seat next to him on the train, and froze. There had been something different about him for the past few days—and he just figured out what.

"Holy shit, kid," he said loudly, flinching in surprise. "You're _old_!"

Allen woke up with a jump, turning towards him with a drowsy expression. "Wha'?" he muttered, gray eyes focusing on his uncle's face. "Cross?"

"Kid," the man placed a firm hand on his shoulder. This wasn't going to be pretty. "There's a small bathroom down the car—go in it, and look at yourself." He never thought he'd say those words to the kid, but miracles do happen.

Allen, while obviously confused off his ass, stood up shakily and wandered towards the back of the train car.

Cross looked at his crossed legs, ready to wince.

He wasn't disappointed.

"_DEAR LORD_," Allen's scream rang throughout the car, causing some of the other passengers to ruse and fidget in shock. "_M-my hair! I'M OLD!_"

"So old," Cross agreed, shaking his head. God, it would suck to be in that side of Allen's family—last he saw the other Walker, that guy had a couple of gray hairs too. They took "prematurely gray" to a completely new level.

Speaking of unfortunately old, Allen ran down the moving car with more grace than Cross could safely say was heterosexual. He was starting to get suspicions about his nephew, but then remembered that the kid was twelve.

"Have you seen my hair?" the boy asked as soon as Cross was in his view, and pointed at the light-gray mop of hair on top of his head like the man in front of him was blind.

He wasn't. "Yes I've seen your fuckin' hair," Cross retorted, rolling his eyes. "And it's clear that you've seen it too." He smirked. "Sorry Grandpa for causin' such a shock. Don't break your hip when you sit, though."

Allen huffed and plopped in his seat, arms crossed petulantly. "This isn't funny," he muttered. "How'm I supposed to go to school like this? I've white hair, Cross! They'll send me to retirement before they let me in class!"

Cross stared at the boy. That was some awfully adult humor coming from the kid, and he wasn't sure if he wasn't comfortable with that.

"Uh," he started carefully, rubbing his bearded chin. The stiff hairs prickled his skin, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Well, you could be like Monkey Warren or something."

Allen looked at him, confused. "What?" he asked like the man told him to dance the Charleston right now.

"You know, the _Adicts_?" Cross tried, but just got a blank look from his nephew. He furrowed his eyebrows, confused—he never told the boy about the_ Adicts_? Did he tell him about Ace Freshley? Or the _New York Dolls_? "Monkey? Well, whatever. Point is, it's the seventies in Europe—nobody's gonna care about some kid with gray hair." He needed to introduce the kid to some good music and pronto.

"Oh," the boy fingered his hair, scrunching his nose in disgust. "I mean, it's not the seventies, but I'd suppose."

Cross sighed, ruffling his nephew's oddly colored hair. "It's no big deal, kid," he said gruffly. He hesitated on his next words. "When we get to Salamanca—we're gonna listen to the radio."

"Why?"

"Because I can't get over how you don't know about Monkey Warren." He sighed. "I'm a crappy fuckin' guardian in that case."

* * *

August 10th, 1983.

"What are we doing now?" Allen asked his uncle, kicking his legs in the air lackadaisically.

Cross scowled at him. "Quit that," he growled, pushing the boy's legs down. "And shut up. Did you finish filling out those tickets?"

"Yes," Allen said with an exaggerated eye roll. "I finished those _years_ ago." How cute, the thirteen-year-old thought he could get sarcastic with Marian Cross. The man bopped his head, and he yelped in pain. "Ow—what was that for?"

"I don't know," Cross replied vaguely. He then shushed the boy. "They're about to release the horses—you better've chosen a good one, or I'm not gettin' you that goddamn piano."

Allen gasped in horror. "But it's a Prophet!" he exclaimed. "You promised me I could 'ave it!"

"_Have_ it, boy," Cross corrected. "The only 'ave' I know is the one we'll be sleeping on if we don't win!"

Before his nephew could reply, a shot rang out in the air and the derby began. Cross had a soft spot for horseracing in Hong Kong—while the odds were notoriously tough in the city, the challenge was usually worth it.

Also, Allen had the uncanny knack for cheating, whether he knew it or not.

"_Lucky Number Seven takes the lead!_" a disembodied voice croaked through the loudspeaker. The crowds around the two yelled and booed while alternatively cheering and screaming. Allen looked uncomfortable as an overweight brute of a man roughly bumped his side in his excitement.

Cross wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulder, pulling him in close. "Who did you bet on?" he asked loudly, and his nephew looked at him with those wide gray eyes.

"Number Three," he replied just as loudly, obviously relieved to be close to the only adult he knew in the audience. "Number Six has a bum ankle, I heard—and Number Seven only has a little training."

An excited glint flashed in the red-haired man's eyes. "So, you're saying…?"

"It's not gonna be in the lead for long," Allen affirmed with a smile that honestly scared the shit out of Cross. "Bugger that sucks. Oh well."

And, right on time, Number Seven began to gallop wildly to the side, the jockey attempting with little success to keep control. While the horse rampaged, the others sped by without a second thought. Cross eyed Number Six, who was keeping a near nice pace with Number Four, who in turn could nip at Number Three's tail with how close the horse was.

The race was turning tense with every thundering gallop, and Cross held Allen closer as Number Three inched closer towards the number one spot.

Number Six toppled to the ground, sending the jockey sailing through the air—the man hit the track with a sickening thud, but the other racers couldn't be bothered to stop and see if he was okay.

Allen clenched his uncle's jacket tightly, the anticipation thick in the air as what seemed to be sort of sideline paramedics rush onto the track and take care of the fallen duo.

The finish line was only meters ahead of the horses, and Number Three was still behind Number Eight by a couple of inches. The redhead clenched his cigarette so tightly between his teeth that he could taste the filter, and Allen held his breath.

Number Eight suddenly jerked to the side of the track, and Number Three soared over the finish line as the winner in the nick of time.

Cross could sense dirty play better than he could fucking see—but that didn't mean he wasn't yelling with the best of them when the shot rang for the race to end.

"Fuck yeah!" he crowed, standing up with much exuberance. He held his thirteen-year-old nephew in his arms, hugging the boy roughly. "You did it, kid! You're a fuckin' genius!"

Allen blushed and buried his face in the man's shoulder. "It was easy," he muttered, and that made Cross want to take the kid out for drinks and whores. Even though he knew he couldn't, it was a nice thought.

"You're gettin' that fuckin' piano," Cross promised, smirking widely. "If it's the last thing I do."

It wasn't the last thing he did—but Allen's excitement kind of warmed his heart.

Kind of.

* * *

December 23rd, 1984.

Allen looked at the house in front of him with a little more than just disdain.

"It's very…" he searched for the word, his hands on his hips. "Triangular."

Cross snorted. "You're very gay," he replied, shoving the boy forward. "But am I judging you? _Yes_. Yes I am."

Allen huffed, rubbing his shoulder with a sort of practiced ease. "You're an arse," he replied haughtily, and he turned back to the yellow house. "So, how long are we going to be here this time?"

His uncle stared at the house as well, a cigarette burning permanently in between his lips. "You're gonna be here for the next three years," he replied.

…_What_? "What?" the British boy demanded, turning around immediately. "What do you mean, 'three years?'"

"Listen," Cross started, rubbing his forehead. "You might not know this, but for a kid who's guardian isn't in the military—don't you think you move _a lot_?"

"Maybe I like moving!" Allen retorted, eyes wide. "Dear Lord, Cross—when were you going to tell me this shite? That we were going to stay in Hampton-on-Row or whatever, Virginia!"

Cross shrugged. "Two minutes ago," he replied. "And it's just Hampton."

"Augh!" The fourteen-year-old threw his hands in the air, annoyed. "My god, how do women deal with you?"

"They don't," the redhead said. "They deal with my dick instead."

"I hate you—"

"It's like my secretary or something," Cross continued. "I should get it a phone so it can answer calls for me too."

"—_so much_." Allen pinched his nose and furrowed his eyebrows, feeling his scar itch on the side of his face. "Okay. Okay. You're probably not serious—you're never serious, especially with these kinds of things. We'll probably be leaving in June, right?" They usually stayed in most places for a semester or quarter of schooling, varying on the school. Then, they were off to another city in another country for the break period before moving again to another place so Allen could get enrolled once more.

He'd changed schools so much that people rarely had enough time to get to know his last name, let alone make fun of him…and he was really just fine with that.

But, now?

"Nah," Cross shook his head, sighing. "You're gonna be here until you graduate, kid." His uncle smirked. "It's not gonna be that bad, brat—you'll make friends, get an education. Maybe you'll find somethin' to do with that stupid cello of yours."

"Keyboard," Allen corrected.

"Didgeridoo, who cares," the redhead scoffed. "Anyway, you need to look on the bright side. It'll be swell, kid."

Allen furrowed his eyebrows and looked at his uncle carefully. "You've been saying all these things," he said slowly, suspiciously. "Like you won't be here. Am I getting the welly?"

"What? No," Cross rolled his eyes. "I just won't be here for a while—I'm an aeronautical scientist, brat. They need me for a lecture in Copenhagen. I mean, I'll be here for your birthday and shit…but, yeah."

"So, you're going to leave me here?" Allen demanded, feeling a cold dread fill his stomach. "_Alone_?" He'd never been left alone before in these years with Cross—he felt the fear freeze his heart.

Cross smirked widely. "Not exactly," he said, and he went back to the car. Jamming his key in the port to the truck, he opened it roughly and then reached inside.

_Oh god,_ Allen thought with no little amount of trepidation. _He's going to give me a riot gun for protection_.

The man placed a large, efficiently ventilated box on the ground. Then, he opened it from the side, and turned it towards the boy. "I named him TImcanpy," Cross said, patting the box. "He's a month old."

Allen furrowed his eyebrows. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?" he asked, and then he saw the movement from the box.

A small, _tiny_ bright yellow puppy waddled out of the box, with white paws and a white chest and Allen immediately fell in love.

"Is…is that…?" he stammered, watching the puppy wander around on clumsy legs.

"A puppy? Hell yeah," Cross replied, scooping up the dog in one hand. Timcanpy was so small, the man could securely hold him by the belly with one hand. "Here." He held the puppy out towards Allen, who looked at the dog with a sense of wonder.

He reached out for the puppy with his gloved fingers, and desired to feel the likely downy soft fur of Timcanpy. The British boy held the dog close to his chest. "Hello," he greeted, carefully looking down at the animal. "I'm Allen, Allen Walker."

Timcanpy stared at him with wide, golden eyes.

And he licked Allen's lips, wiggling in his hold.

"Ha ha!" Allen laughed, nuzzling the dog. "Don't do that! Who knows where your tongue has been?"

Cross watched them with a sort of satisfied expression, or at least that's what Allen thought it was. "Probably his nuts," he said crudely, but his nephew was set on not let the man's words bother him. "So, you guys are obviously Best Friends in Five Seconds—you think you'll okay for a couple of weeks, alone?"

Allen looked up at him, the puppy still wriggling in his arms. "Um," he started, but looked at the dog in his arms. He wouldn't be _completely_ alone. "Well, I can't promise I'll make any friends…but maybe I'll be okay for a couple of weeks."

Cross snorted. "Kid," he replied. "You'll make more friends than I make enemies."

What an impossible number.

But Allen smiled anyway at the effort.

* * *

June 25th, 1985.

"Mr. Walker," a woman shook the slumbering body by the shoulder, her hijab headscarf slipping a bit. Her hand automatically pulled the silk back over her dark hair, and she shook the man once more. "Mr. Walker, you have a phone call."

Neah Walker grunted, turning over to the side roughly. "Neh," he breathed, assumedly still asleep.

"Mr. Walker, wake up." She shook him again. "You have a phone call."

"Go 'way, Kawa," he groaned, weakly flapping his wrist at her to leave. "I'm sleepin' 'ere."

Kawa Murali, a woman of Islamic faith but little patience, narrowed her eyes. "Mr. Walker, I'm going to pull these covers off of you," she threatened. "And then I'm going to put ice cubes in your underwear."

"Meh." Neah obviously ignored her threat as he bundled tighter in his comforter.

Kawa grabbed the edge of the comforter and pulled with all of her might. While she was a petite woman of twenty-five years and Neah Walker was a generally average-sized man of twenty-seven, she still managed to pull the cover and the Musician off of the bed.

"Oof!" Neah yelped as he hit the cold, hardwood floor. "Kawa, why'd'ja do that, ah? The ring can't possibly be _that_ important!" He stood up shakily, fixing his pajama pants higher upon his hips.

The small woman cocked an eyebrow. "You may never know," she said simply, and pushed him out of the bedroom into the common room. "Now, you said that you want to get your career back on track, Mr. Walker. You need to take every opportunity that comes—this includes little things like phone calls." She smiled, stopping in front of the unhooked corded phone. "You could be surprised."

Neah rubbed the back of his neck, grateful that he wasn't meeting someone face-to-face instead. His hair was a mess, he had a terrible case of five o'clock shadow, and his pajamas had hearts on the crotch. He'll take the phone instead any day—but he'd still rather be sleeping.

He picked up the headset, sniffing. "'ello?" he greeted in a grainy, deep voice that was common of him when inharmoniously woken up. "'_ello_?"

"_Mr. Neah Walker?_" the voice on the other line sounded confident and deep with a twinge of something dark. It was familiar and male, and it itched at the back of his brain. "_Are you available for the moment?_"

"Err, yes," Neah replied, looking around the room blearily. "Might I ask who's callin'?"

"_I'm surprised you didn't recognize my voice immediately,_" the caller said, blatantly amused. "_Old friend._"

The Englishman stared at the phone, perplexed. "I'm not followin'," he said.

"_Well, my name is Adam Earl,_" 'Adam' explained, chuckling. "_Some years ago, they called me _Millennium—_timeless, if you may._"

Adam Earl. Millennium.

_Timeless._

Neah sucked in a short breath through his teeth, eyes widening. "I say," he said. "Earl. How've you been, me old mate? I've not seen ya in 'bout five years or so."

"_I daresay that you've not seen anyone in about five years, Mr. Musician,_" Adam replied with a melodious hum to his baritone. Neah held the phone closer to his ear, desiring once more the comforting sounds of the past. "_You've been quite the hermit, sir. May I ask why?_"

Hermit? Neah snorted. That was putting it lightly. His skin was pale from a lack of leaving the studio or his Northern Ireland-located apartment. The sun bothered him, emotionally and physically, so his interior decorating was darker than most people would've liked. He kept constant contact with all of three people—his manager, his assistant, and his sort-of-brother-in-law-maybe. Everyone else was pretty much lucky if they caught a glance of his face.

"I'd ratha' not say," he replied, smiling. "But whatta 'bout you, old man? How've you been?"

"_Great, except I've a bit of a predicament,_" Adam replied, and Neah rolled his eyes. He should've known this wasn't a call for pleasure or even a simple check-up. "_I'm sponsoring a big event in America for aspiring musicians, and there are a few problems._"

"What kind'o problems, ah?" the pale man asked, leaning his back against the hallway wall. Kawa shuffled by, and he flashed his assistant a smile.

Adam sighed, rather over exaggeratedly at that. "_It's an annual event called the 'Battle of the Bands,'_ _it's in September, and it's open to pretty much all people. This event is a judged competition,_" he explained. "_And it's such a busy time of year for many musicians, Neah. I've gotten Branch Record Enterprises to secure me one artist for judging, and French producer Galmar has agreed for scouting and advertisement purposes._"

_Just say want you want._ "What're you sayin', Adam?" he asked, sighing softly.

"_I need a third judge, Neah._"

"Oh, Adam…I dun't know 'bout—"

The older man cut him off. "_I'll pay for your transportation and time,_" he insisted cheerfully. "_And this could be the jumpstart you were looking for, Walker. Weren't you thinking about coming back onto the music scene?_"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"_Then why not, friend? I can even get you a couple of…rocks, to bide your time._"

Neah frowned. "I don't do that anymore," he said, his throat closing a bit. "I mean, drugs. I ain't a fan anymore."

The other line was silent for a long while, and Neah had to look at the phone because he wasn't sure if the man hung up. "_Well, this is a surprise, coming from the tightest string-up of five years ago. Have you gone to rehab, Walker?_" Adam asked, apparently curious.

"Yeah." The pianist closed his eyes. "I 'ave."

"_Hmm._" Adam sounded contemplative, but about what, nobody could be sure. The Millennium Earl was pretty well known for his layer of disloyalty, but Neah never really had a problem with the man before. "_In that case, I'm proud of you, friend._"

"Err, thank you," Neah replied, frowning. "But, 'bout yer judging—"

"_How about this,_" Adam started quickly. "_I'll leave ye my personal number and my office number—call me in a couple of days, and give me an answer, okay? I promise you, Neah—it will be swell._"

"Swell?"

"_But of course."_ The man sounded mysterious. Then again, when _didn't_ he sound mysterious. "_It's sponsored by me—there's always guaranteed to be _something_ there._" Adam chuckled deeply. "_What that 'something' is, we may never know until we find out._"

Neah blinked. "Uh," he spoke, readjusting the headset to balance between his shoulder and ear. "What's ye number, then? If I may?"

"_Think about it,_" Adam said sternly, and then gave him a couple of telephone numbers to write down. "_I'll be hearing from you in a few days._" It wasn't a question.

Neah nodded. "Right then," he said. "I'll call ye when I make a decision. Nice talkin' t' ya, mate."

"_And you, Neah._"

The line went dead.

The pale man looked at the numbers on the paper, his handwriting slanted and crawling across the white surface. There was something about the black lines that threaded along the uninteresting white surface, something about the way words and numbers could dance with the flick of a wrist.

And he wanted to play the piano.

"Kawa!" he shouted, shuffling into his room. "We're goin' t' th' studio! Call up me manager fer me and tell 'im t' meet us there!"

"Of course, Mr. Walker," Kawa replied loudly, probably in the kitchen of the average-sized apartment.

Neah pawed through his dresser, pulling out various dress pants and vests. He didn't know why he suddenly had this urge—but he wasn't going to fight it.

_I'll talk to my manager later,_ he thought. _And we'll decide then._

But, inside, he already knew what his decision would be.

* * *

September 4th, 1985.

Cross hated the shrill sound of the phone in this house, especially during school hours.

When Allen wasn't here, he was never comfortable with answering the phone—after all, he never really gave out his number to anyone who mattered, and bill collectors should have given up with how many times he's changed locations.

But, today, with a clench in his gut, he watched the phone rattle in its hold before picking it up roughly.

"Hello?" he grumbled, rubbing his temples. "Hey, _hello_?"

The other line was silent for a moment, and a thick accent finally replied cautiously, "'_Ello? Cross?_"

Cross squinted his eyes, disbelieving. "Neah? Neah fuckin' Walker?" he tried, and the sigh of relief that sounded in his ear answered all of his questions. "Well, fuck. What's going on? You never call me—it's not a fuckin' relapse, right? You still go to rehab?"

"_Ah, I'm good, mate_," Neah replied, chuckling. "_But, I actually left rehab some months ago—the docs say I'm right as rain, I am!_"

"Good for you then," the red-haired man said, boredom leaking into his tone. "So, why'd you call then? 'Cause I'm the last fuckin' person you should be talkin' to if you need money."

Neah chortled a bit, which almost offended Cross. "_Believe me, mate—I know,_" he said. "_But, that's not why I'm callin'. Are you still in America?_"

"Yeah," Cross replied, feeling a nicotine itch creep through his blood. "I'll probably be here for a while. Why?"

"_I'm comin' to America in two days,_" Neah explained. "_Some place in Georgia, I'd suppose. Where are you, again?_"

Let it never be said that Cross graduated top of his class at UCL by sheer luck. "Virginia," he said from gritted teeth, and he rubbed his temples once more. "Fuck. _Fuck_."

"_Whot's the issue, mate?_" the Englishman asked worriedly. "_Wait, don't tell me—_"

"You're going to that _Battle of the Bands_ shit. I _know_ it."

There was a short series of fumbling from the other line, and Cross sighed. He needed some vodka—seriously.

"_Allen can't possibly be goin' as well!_" Neah exclaimed, distressed. "_Bloody 'ell, isn't it a school day or somethin'? Does he even like music?_"

"He's more like you than you think," Cross said blandly. "The kid's got some nuts, even if he's a little girl. Apparently he plays piano, so be proud you English bastard."

A small pause followed that statement, which implied that Neah probably _was_ proud of his nephew. "_But, I can't pull out now,_" he whispered. "_I already promised the Earl that I'd judge—fuck!_" It was rare to hear the man curse, but his accent always made it sound funny as shit to Cross so he didn't complain. "_Stop Allen._"

Cross furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, _what_? You want me to just stop the kid?" he asked skeptically. "Shit man, the brat's got so many tricks to get away that he'd be a sweet ass magician."

"_Ground him!_" Neah insisted, his voice nearly squeaking. "_I dunno, lock 'is door or somethin'! I ain't ready yet, Cross!_" His voice fell to a weak whisper. "_I can't talk to 'im yet…he'll hate me. I can't handle that, Cross._"

The red-haired man looked out the window, eyeing the cloudy sky with a bit of trepidation. "The kid…won't hate you," he replied slowly, closing his eyes. "He's not as young as you think." A hand covered his eyes, shoving his glasses up his forehead, and the man heaved a heavy sigh. "He's had to grow up a lot, Neah."

"…_I know._" Neah said. "_I know._"

"I'll try to stop him," Cross said, groaning as he stood up. "But, just know. You can't avoid this forever."

Neah did not reply for a long time, and when he did, it was in a tone so defeated it nearly wrenched at the man's heart. "_I was going to try._"

Cross hung up the phone, sighing.

* * *

September 7th, 1985.

Allen woke up with his heart in his throat.

"Whoa!" a voice exclaimed from his side, and a hand was laid on his shoulder forcefully. "Calm down, Brit! I can hear your heartbeat from over here, man."

Allen tried to relax, but the sheer panic continued to fuel his adrenaline, which pumped his heart deeply in his chest. "Where am I?" he asked, gray eyes darting to the sides of the unfamiliar space. He caught the worried gaze of familiar green eyes, and calmed down a little more. "Lavi?"

Lavi grinned weakly, saluting. "On the ready," he said. His smile fell quickly, and he leaned over Allen with a terribly concerned expression. "How're you, babe?"

The British teen cracked a small smile. "Don't call me babe," he replied quietly, looking into his friend's wide, green eye. "Where am I?" he repeated.

"You know all outdoor events need an emergency outdoor clinic, right?" the drummer replied, crossing his arms over Allen's prone legs. He rested his chin atop his arms and smiled. "After your bunk fainting thing, we had to get you here—and pronto."

Allen had no idea this was even nearby. He supposed it was for convenience's sake, or something like it.

"Hmm," he hummed, looking back at the ceiling. "Where are Kanda and Lenalee?"

Lavi cringed. "Lenalee's arguin' with Sherman about the synthesizer," he explained, and Allen winced. "And Yuu's arguin' with…uh…" he trailed off, obviously hesitant in disclosing the identity of the culprit.

"Just tell me," Allen said, sighing. "If I don't like it, then I simply won't like it. Not much I can do about it, right?"

"Other than faint," Lavi muttered, but the Englishman pretended he didn't hear that. The redhead sighed, burrowing his face in his arms. "Yuu's arguin' with the _Musician_, try'na keep the dude from seein' you."

Allen froze. "He's out there?" he asked weakly, feeling his heartbeat accelerate again. "As in, right now?"

"Calm down," the older teenager patted his knee, grinning. "Like I said, Yuu's havin' a blast keepin' the guy from comin' in here, however worried he says he is. Our Jap isn't buying a word of it, even on discount."

The bad pun had the white-haired teen cringing, and he felt a sort of warmth creep up his insides at Kanda's alleged actions. Except, he was terribly bewildered on why the _Musician _(also known as his uncle on his father's side) would want to see him.

"So, what was that about anyway?" Lavi asked, frowning. "The whole fainting thing, anyway. Usually you're real ace on keeping your cool—but, uh. That was weird."

Allen stared at the white ceiling of the tent or whatever they were in at the moment. The one thing that many people never realized about fainting is that many people do not remember fainting. "I saw him," he said quietly, gazing at his red arm. "And I woke up here." He did not include the information about the sheer amount of grief he felt overcome him, nor the shame of seeing the man closest to his deceased father for the first time in years and still feeling unwanted.

The man had not even recognized him.

Lavi, though, was unfortunately as sharp as ever. He should really give those cognitive skills a rest. "Allen," he began gently, laying a hand atop the younger boy's. "I'm not tryin' to barge into your past or whatever, because it's pretty clear when you don't want someone to know. But, just know," and he smiled here, brightening up his face as a whole. "I'm here for ya. If you want to rant to an old Jew about random shit, well—I'm the closest thing you can get, Brit."

Allen was truly, honestly touched. "Thank you," he said with a small smile that tugged at his heart. He looked at the hand that covered his own, the palm rough and the fingers marred with thick calluses. The tanned back of his hand, though, for all the damage on the palm, looked obscenely soft to the touch. "And, perhaps, you deserve to know."

"I'm pretty sure I don't, Allen."

"I'm quite sure you do," the British teen replied, smiling wider. "After all, you said it yourself—you're not trying to 'barge into my past,' which I deathly appreciate, by the way. But, things'll be rather awkward in the future if I don't get over my past, ah?"

Lavi blinked at him for a few silent seconds, lips pressed in a downward curving line. "I gotta say," he finally said, sitting up. "You drive a hard bargain. All right!" He squeezed Allen's hand, grinning. "What's got you so bothered, fox?"

Allen laughed a little, turning over his hand to rest his palm against the familiar heat of another. With that, he began quietly, "I'm an only child. My dad worked at an entertainment company—doing what, I was never quite sure, but I knew he was paid quite a bit and that my uncle was good in it too. Neah, I mean," he rectified at Lavi's furrowed eyebrows. "He's me uncle on my dad's side."

"Wow," Lavi hummed. "It's like you're related to greatness on all sides, dude."

"Maybe." If you considered Cross 'great,' then sure. "Any roads, I never really liked to play piano as a lad, it was something that was forced I'd suppose." Allen looked at his legs, swallowing back his sadness. "My dad wanted me to play. He loved the sound of the piano—his dad used to play, I believe. My uncle's success was just a bonus or such. I didn't love the piano until recently, until my dad was long gone. It hurts a bit, actually."

The redhead frowned, squeezing his hand tighter. "Hey now," he replied. "That can't be what's beating you up. You can never force love, Al—this, this is a fact. You fall in love with whatever or whoever whenever—it's not something that you can make."

"I know," Allen said, sighing. "And it's not the bigger part of what bothers me." He brought his pale hand to his forehead, brushing his bangs away from his gray eyes. "The thing that really tears at me, well, is the fact that my uncle—the last living connection I have with my father—does not love me. That, Lavi, is what truly hurts."

At this, Lavi froze completely. He looked up at the pianist, the English boy of fifteen years that registered in most people's mind as much older. He simply laid on the bed, his long legs stretched out and his head titled back on a soft pillow. Lavi followed the sharp planes of his face, from his tapered chin to his full lips, over his thin, straight nose and his furrowed, smooth brow.

Allen Walker was a beautiful human being, if not terribly tragic in a more modern way.

"Why," Lavi began, forcing his gaze away. "Do you think that?"

"He held me back," Allen replied. "As we watched my father die."

_Oh_, Lavi thought. _This is more disastrous than I thought. Huh._

"The house was on fire. My dad got far enough out to throw me to safety, and then the world collapsed on him." The English boy breathed deeply, eyes focused on the top of the ceiling or maybe even the top of the Earth. "I wanted to save him—but Neah picked me up and held me close as the fire destroyed the only person to ever love me."

Lavi stayed silent throughout this part, his mind quickly piecing together the words and the reality of the situation. He was a genius, he knew—but, he wasn't a psychiatrist. He did not truly understand human nature or other people like many assumed he did, but even now he realized that Allen was a boy with emotional trauma that gouged deeply at his being.

Because, that, Lavi realized, is what love could do.

"I was forced to watch my father die," Allen said in a near whisper, his chest moving in semi-automatic spurts of emotion. His red hand flexed under Lavi's grip, but the older teenager just held tighter. "And it hurt me." Throughout this entire talk, a tear had never once graced the boy's face. Either he was really strong—or extremely stupid. "Then, on New Year's day, I met my new legal guardian. Cross."

Lavi already knew how this story would end, but he let Allen continue regardless.

"Cross, my uncle on my mum's side, apparently, informed me that he was the only available person to take me in." Allen's lips curled into a deep frown. "Neah rejected the notion of taking me in. That was the most painful thing I could ever hear. And then I hadn't seen the man in four to five years—I still think of his arms keeping me from my dad. Many times."

The redhead sat quietly, thoughtful in his silence. "Was your arm messed up because of your uncle?" he asked carefully, tracing the rough ridges of the young man's hand. "Like, how did it get like this?"

"I was trying to get my dad out of the debris," Allen explained. "And my arm got stuck."

"Did the _Musician_ pull you out of the mess?"

Allen paused, blinking. "Well, yes, he did," he said, looking into Lavi's eye. "Fairly quickly."

Lavi nodded, a grin stretching on his lips. "Y'wanna know somethin', Al?" he asked, leaning in close. "You're one tough kid." He released Allen's hand and brought it to the top of his friend's white crown, ruffling his soft hair. "But, you're also human."

"What else would I be?" the younger man groused, smacking the hand away. "A mutt? But, honestly, what do you mean?"

The redhead stretched, various joints cracking into place. "Humanity is flawed," he explained, smirking. "Not that I don't feel for your story, or respect your feelings—but, there are two sides to everything. A coin, a story, even a traumatic experience." At Allen's look of strife, he hurried to soften his statement. "What I'm sayin' is—it's no good to kill yourself over half the facts."

Allen stared at him, perplexed. "Are you telling me to talk to him?" he asked slowly.

Lavi sighed, standing up languidly. "I'll tellin' you," he corrected. "To find closure. You don't wanna be stuck with the feeling of never knowin' what happened for the rest of your life—believe me, Brit. It ain't a great feeling."

"But, I…" the boy looked at his hands, frowning. "I don't know if I can. He hasn't tried to contact me, and I'm sure that he severely dislikes the sight of me. I am just fine with talking to people I _don't_ know who hate me, but…this is my uncle."

"Did you ever think," Lavi replied carefully, thinking of the _Musician_ in the news over the past five years. "That maybe he _couldn't_ contact you? Kid," and this was a defining moment of their relationship, he liked to think. "You should talk to him."

He watched a flush slowly move up the boy's neck, and almost laughed at the expression of embarrassment on his face. Thank god he wasn't as fucking pale as this kid—because from what he's seen so far, it really sucks.

"Anyway," he continued, checking his watch. "It's been like three hours. Maybe four. I'm not your pops, Allen—I'm not going to protect you." He smiled kindly. "Much."

He turned around on his heel, waving as he left. "Later days and better lays, babe," he said, opening the flap. "Don't forget to face your fears."

Allen looked so confused as he left, Lavi almost felt like he would regret this.

Ahead of him, by about three feet, Yuu stood with his perfect guard dog stance while the _Musician—_Neah Walker, actually—weakly gesticulated towards the tent while yammering on about needing to see Allen.

"—I ain't askin' fer a private show, mate!" Neah exclaimed, raking his fingers through his hair. "He's me nephew—cor blimey, I think I deserve to make sure he's alright!"

"And here I thought I hated the shit out of the brat's accent," Yuu commented dully, arms crossed. "But, no. You've asked me this shit like fifty times—answer's still no, hoser."

Lavi laughed at the distressed look on Neah's face, and the two men turned to look at him in shock. "'Sup?" he greeted, wiggling his fingers in a wave. "You guys been havin' a good time in this Southern heat?"

Obviously not, as Neah was sweating with his jacket off, and Yuu was starting to look a little red even though it was eight at night. Poor pale kids—it's like the world hates them.

"How's the kid?" Yuu asked, disregarding his question as usual.

"Awake, and emotionally distressed," Lavi replied, shrugging. It wasn't that he was flippant about it, like he didn't care—he just had a really good feeling that this would all work out in the end. Maybe. Okay, it wasn't that good of a feeling, but still. "I was just comin' out to tell you that maybe you should let the _Musician_ through. I'm sure you've been giving him a less than stellar celebrity treatment anyway, Yuu."

The Japanese man shrugged. "He looks total sketch, dude," he replied simply, jabbing a thumb at the sight of Neah Walker, who deflated at the words.

"Eh, he's British," Lavi replied. "Don't they all look kinda sketchy?"

"Don't all drummers look like morons," Neah muttered, but Lavi pointedly ignored that. "So, I can see Allen, yeah? Is he okay?"

Lavi shrugged. "I'm gonna let you see him," he said. "Because I think this is years of one mistake accumulated over time, causin' an emotional and psychological rift that might never fully heal. Though," here, he stuck his thumb up. "I'm good on the thought that you're actually a mega cool cat. If Allen is hurt, _however_. Well."

Yuu cracked his knuckles. "I don't think you even wanna know," he said with a raised eyebrow.

Neah looked appropriately demure, if only because Yuu and Lavi were about the same height of the man with the power of youth on their side. Although the streaks of grey did not take away from the man's young face, but maybe he was that kind of guy who pulled it off.

"It might've been a mistake for me," he said, before bypassing Yuu towards the tent. "But, well. Cause an' effect, mate."

Lavi and Yuu watched the man enter the tent, silently mulling over his words.

"You know," the Japanese man began, looking up at the dark sky. "This is the worst blast from the past ever."

"You said it, buddy," Lavi agreed.

* * *

Neah touched the entrance flap of the tent cautiously, afraid that there was another Japanese guard dog behind the veil. He was also scared to shite of how this interaction would go, but he was trying to not focus on that.

So, he lifted the cloth and entered swiftly, worrying his bottom lip.

His eyes widened at the sight before him, and his heart throbbed in his ears loudly.

After five years of not seeing his nephew, his brother's light of his life—it came as quite a shock to actually gaze upon the teenaged male resting on the generic gurney.

The slight convex nose, those narrowed gray eyes, that smooth handsome face, even his lean, long body—he almost looked just like his father.

"I," he breathed out, covering his mouth. "I—I—"

_I'm so sorry._

Allen looked at him with a start, and he saw the panic creep up his nephew's body in slow motion. Neah held out his other hand, attempting to calm the boy—though, it didn't work by a long shot.

"I'm sorry!" Allen exclaimed, bringing his legs to his chest in a rushed flail. He buried his face in his knees, apparently trying to form a ball to avoid the man. "Mmf, smmurf."

Neah had no idea what he said. "Err," he started awkwardly. "May, may I sit?" He gestured towards the generic folding chair placed crooked near the bed.

His nephew looked at him, disbelief shining bright in his eyes. Why? "I, I'd suppose," he replied in a near whisper.

This was not going to be very comfortable, Neah concluded as he took cautious steps towards the boy. Dragging the chair a little way away from him, he sat down and crossed his legs immediately.

The silence quickly filled the air, permeating their senses and making them painfully aware of just how awkward this entire situation was.

"Well," Neah began, looking everywhere but at his nephew. He wasn't sure if he quite deserved that right yet, the right to look the boy in the eyes without guilt. "How've you been, Allen?"

Allen seemed to also be avoiding his gaze. This was terrible. "Fine," he answered.

"Right, then. Err, how is Cross?" Well, he already knew, but there needed to be _some_ sort of conversation. "The old dog?"

"…Fine."

"…Okay." Neah looked at his hands, clothed in gloves. A glance at the boy in the gurney brought to his attention Allen's arm—red and wrinkled along what was probably the entire arm. He'd never seen it outside the bandages at the hospital. "Yer arm…"

And that was the wrong thing to say, he realized seconds later as Allen's eyes snapped towards him and a scowl seemed to transform his face.

"What about it?" the teenager asked, tension stretched through his vocals. He looked nearly offended. "Should I cover it? Am I offending you?"

"What?" Neah replied, shocked. "N-no! I don't understand!"

"Why are you even here?" Allen demanded, his voice cracking the slightest bit. "Are you tryin' to make me break? Did Cross put you up to this?"

Neah frowned. "What the bloody hell are you talkin' about, boy?" he growled, irritation at his nephew's behavior shining through. He had no idea why the boy would act like this—_he_ was the guilty party, not Allen! "I'm a bloody musician—I do shite like this all th' time! This is me damned job, really! And yer me nephew—I think I can see ya if you, well, _faint_ or some balls."

"Bollocks!" his nephew snapped, crossing his arms with more attitude than necessary. "Ya came 'ere t' see me down! Why else? Who am I t' ya—just the fuckin' kid of yer brother, no big deal, ah?" The words were spilling out, and Neah's eyes widened. "Ya didn't even recognize me, some bloody 'uncle' you are!"

"What do you fuckin' expect, boy?" the Musician demanded, feeling his eyes itch with the beginning of tears. He wiped weakly at his eyes, scowling. "You've white 'air! You're nearly me own height! I haven't even seen ya in'na good four o' five years! Christ!"

This yelling match was causing a bright red flush to crawl up Allen's neck to his face. "Right, because that's _my_ bloody fault!" he retorted, sneering.

"I never said it was," Neah said, gritting his teeth. He narrowed his eyes at his nephew, his stomach tightening in his agitation. "Goddammit boy, I'd think Cross would teach ya some manners with all yer goin' on!"

Allen froze, staring into his eyes with such a look of betrayal that Neah was quick to regret his words and tone.

"Cross, teaching me manners?" the boy scoffed, if not a bit weakly. The Musician looked back down at his hands, his eyes watering once more. "Funny joke. But, at the same time—at least he almost loves me."

Neah looked back up at that, his eyebrows furrowing. "What?" he demanded. "O' course he loves ya! No almost about it!"

"Nobody loved me more than my father," Allen replied, a grim set to his jaw. He looked Neah dead in the eyes, his gaze unsettling in a way. "And after he died...well. Cross was the closest thing."

"Allen," Neah started, scowling. He was getting a feeling to where this was going. "Cross was the best choice fer ya—ya gotta understand."

Allen continued to stare at him, and he obviously didn't believe that. And, from what Neah could decipher about Marian Cross's personality—he wouldn't really believe it either.

"So, why," his nephew replied, his frown falling into a straight-lipped expression. "Couldn't you take me?"_  
_

The British man felt a tear slip from his eyes and slide down his cheeks, and felt as though the last five years just may have been a mistake—but, Allen deserved to know. "I love you so much," Neah replied, clenching his hands into fists only to relax them immediately. "Allen, ya gotta know."

"I can't tell," Allen said quietly. "When nobody will tell me."

Mana, in all of Neah's memories, had always been a very affectionate man. Even in their youth, his brother was never quite shamed to tell himself or their parents of his love. His ex-girlfriend, before and during the pregnancy, had been smothered in proclamations of love and other examples of affection. Allen, also, had grown up with his father's frequent affection.

When a child's only true knowledge of love is suddenly torn away, he could understand how that could mess up someone for the count.

"I love you," he repeated, closing his eyes. "I know, I ain't yer dad, but, Allen. I couldn't contact you. It…just couldn't be done."

"Why?" Allen asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why couldn't you send me a bloody ring, let alone give me guardianship?"

Neah looked at his shoes, shame humming through his veins. "Because I almost killed myself."

* * *

Allen was expecting a lot of reasons—but, suicide had not been one of them.

"What?" he said, eyes widening. His uncle sat next to his bed, utterly defeated in his pose. Allen nearly felt bad for exploding on him earlier, but…he simply couldn't help it.

"I got outta rehab 'bout four months ago," Neah explained, wringing his hands together. His long hair fell over his eyes—a color so alike to Allen's own that it was almost disconcerting. "I'm…I'm recoverin' from a cocaine addiction. I've been recoverin' fer the past four years."

"…Cocaine?" Allen repeated weakly, grabbing his bicep in a subconscious expression of fear. He'd seen the injection of cocaine on television once—it was a terrifying thing to watch, and he never quite got over the grotesque image of pain's transformation to ecstasy.

Neah smiled weakly. "It ain't as bad as it seems…well, that's probably because I thought it was great," he joked, but Allen didn't find it quite funny. The man sighed, wiping his eyes again—it was always nerve-wrecking to see a grown man cry, really. "After Mana…I went a bit off. I nearly overdosed to th' point o' not wakin' up me'self."

"Wait," Allen said, blinking rapidly. "You nearly killed yourself _after_ dad?"

"Yeah," his uncle replied. "I know. It was beyond daft of me."

_All I know_, Allen thought with a sense of cold dread filling his stomach. _Is that I almost lost two people I loved in nearly the same amount of time. _

"I was in the same hospital as you, really," Neah continued, jiggling his leg nervously. "But I couldn't see ya. Not because th' doc' said no—but because I was ashamed. I was so ashamed, Allen." He buried his face in his hands, and Allen did not know what to do.

The white-haired boy held up a hand to pat the man's shoulder, but then thought against it. How would it help? Likely very little, if anything.

"I knew I couldn't take care'a ya—but, the hospital got Cross in while I was out," Neah said with a small smile. "So, I thought, 'this bloke can make sure Allen get's a good life.' I truly believed you would be better…not with me."

Allen frowned. "Why didn't you talk to me, then?" he asked, sadness leaking through his tone. Regardless of how emotionally distressing the man's explanation was, it could not erase five years of isolation.

"You were ten, Allen," Neah explained, shaking his head. "If I 'ad come up t' ya strung up as high as I was…you would've never wanted t' see me again. I would'a been ruined fer ya—and that would'a killed me." He sighed. "And as fer the rest of th' time, well. I kept a lot'a contact wit' Cross—he told me 'bout all yer things! Like when you reached year nine, with honors—I was right proud, I was."

This was hurting him inside so much more than it should have. "But…" Allen tried to fight once more, yet the more Neah spoke, the less anger he felt and the more sad understanding pooled inside. "I just…"

"I love you, Allen," his uncle spoke with more conviction than he'd heard so far. "But, I couldn't trust me'self to talk t' ya." He looked up into his nephew's gray eyes, and Allen had to lean back in surprise at the intensity of the gaze. "I'm sorry, Allen. I'm _so_, _so _sorry."

_I'd suppose_, a deep, dark part of Allen thought with an amount of spite that was nearly disturbing. For the most part, though, he was confused and disorientated and really just wanted to go back to Hampton and crawl into his bed with Timcanpy snuggled beside him.

He was so tired.

"I—okay," Allen relented, breaking away from the heavy stare. He wrapped his arms around his knees, feeling the familiar pit of shame erupt at the sight of his wrinkled red skin. "I mean. Could you, well. Go away?"

Neah blinked, obviously surprised at the lack of emotion in his request. "Are you sure? I mean, I could—"

"No, it's okay," Allen cut him off, his voice cracking as the emotion began to spill through. "Just. Go. _Please_."

His uncle stood up uncertainly, a hand on the back of the chair as though he were prepared to sit right back down. "I'll see you later, then," he said quietly, confirming one of Allen's many small fears. "Take care, Allen." He paused, hesitant in his next words. "I love you."

The man hurried out of the tent about the same time Allen broke into slowly heaving sobs, and the timing could not have been better.

Or, at least, Allen felt that way.

* * *

Lavi watched with a curious eye how Neah Walker hurried out of the tent, his eyes watery and a hand over his mouth.

He did not intervene as the man hurried away towards the parking lot—it was best to let men cry, his grandpa always told him.

"Well," he began, stretching. "It's time for us to disappear for a while."

Yuu looked at him, perplexed. "The fuck do you mean?" he demanded. "The kid's in there—probably bleeding tears all over the place, and you want us to leave? You're a cruel monster underneath all that Kosher, I knew it."

"Goddammit, Yuu," Lavi smacked his forehead, dragging the hand down in a show of exasperation. "Have you ever even dealed with somethin' like this before? With a sick sorta impromptu family reunion—no, _Third_, doesn't fuckin' count, asswipe."

The guitarist closed his mouth with an audible snap, and scowled. "You know I fuckin' haven't," he growled. "So, what the fuck?"

"Well, neither have I," Lavi explained with a cheerful smile, as conflicted as he might've been inside. "So, we're gonna have'ta let Al go through this alone." He placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Nothin' we do is gonna help, Yuu. Believe me."

Yuu scowled some more, if that was even possible, and crossed his arms. "Fuck you," he said, but was clearly agreeing to his explanation. He kicked at the dirt, huffing. "Fuck this, then. I'm booking back to th' hotel, hoser."

Lavi, with one last glance towards the clinic tent, turned to him. "Count me in too," he said with a grin.

But, his heart went out to Allen, in more ways than one.

He could only hope the kid would be okay.

* * *

Did anyone see the flashback coming? BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN WRITING THIS CHAPTER SINCE OCTOBER OF LAST YEAR! I love this chapter. So much.

Anyway check out the short break in between updates awww yeah a little over two weeks, but hey who cares

In others news WHY IS THIS CHAPTER 15000 PLUS WORDS? You guys're killin' me—I always want to make sure I give a good amount of story and make the length worth the read, but this is getting ridiculous. No more chapters over 13k! It's so strenuoussss. I also cannot promise the date in which the next chap with be, but no worries. Hopefully it's not crazy long like the one between ch.36 and 37 lol

I think this might be a Lavi/Allen chapter, with more to come okay Lavi/Allen fans? Kanda/Allen fans you guys have gotten A LOT of service so far, but please keep reading because we are reaching the end of the climax, which means we'll fall soon into one resolution of many. Also, Cross Character Development© is nice, yes? Remember when I said that thing in that one chapter, that Cross's words would be important? I meant it :D

Soooo, those who took the Antagonist Quiz, are you still sure of your answer? Because I'll tell you two hints: there is more than one antagonist (physical or concept-wise or whatever), and I personally find love to be a rather crippling emotion. Communication is vital for all relationships—familial or love-wise or whatever

Speaking of that CrazyQuiz, I NEED to give a shoutout to CloudLover1984, because she sent me the closest thing to an essay you can get with these character limits…I offered her the world, and she just wanted me to update. So, Jenny, this one is for you. Seriously.

Last bit of news: Emiggax now writes fanfiction for realz! :D If you read Hetalia (WHICH YOU SHOULD BTW), you should check her out. Her penname is simply Emiggax, no issue bro :7


	39. More Than A Feeling

_THIRTY-NINE_

September 8th, 1985.

"It's nine, man," Kanda said, scratching the back of his neck drowsily. "Shouldn't we wake him up? I mean, yeah, okay, he had some emotional breakdown shit and cried like Tiedoll after that time we watched _Splendor in the Grass_—but he's been asleep for_ever_."

Lenalee and Lavi stared at their (admittedly crass) friend in varying levels of horror.

Yuu Kanda must've possessed the least amount of tact in all of Guinness's Records.

"We can't—we can't just wake him up after his entire life was pretty much _crashed_ or something, you dick!" Lenalee exclaimed, gesturing at his neck like she wanted to choke him. Well, she kind of did, but her innate fear of Kanda sort of prevented her from doing anything too crazy. "Do you have _any_ idea how long it took for him to even fall asleep after he got back? He cried for _two hours_. _Dos Stunden_!"

Lavi furrowed his eyebrows. "You totally just fused two languages, Lenalady," he said carefully, not wanting to enrage her further with more banal conversation.

She looked at him with a bashful smile. "I switched between Spanish and German in the middle of my sophomore year and I gotta say," here, she made a slight face of disdain. "The results weren't too banging."

"I can tell," Lavi replied blandly, scratching his head underneath his headband. "However, next time we should probably keep our bilingual logistics outta our bestie's break downs." He turned to Kanda, and rested a hand on his shoulder while simultaneously ignoring the expression of disgust and rage he was receiving in return. "Remember what I said yesterday? How we should let him deal with this himself because nothing we can do can help?"

Kanda, after wrenching Lavi's hand off his general presence, grimaced at the memory. "Which is another thing I didn't get," he said in a snarling undertone. Lavi's eyebrows rose high, nearly touching his hairline in his surprise. "If he's havin' such a shitty time with his life and all we're doin' is dicking about and around him, why aren't we allowed to help him out?"

"Wait," Lenalee spoke up, looking at Lavi with wide eyes. "Is _that_ what you said? Holy shit, why _are_ we doing that, then?"

The redhead smacked his forehead, dragging the hand down in an exaggerated show of frustration. "Okay, so I realize that you two both have these supa sweet mad righteous relationships with your guardians, and yeah, I do too—but you guys didn't hear this kid's history."

"Who gives a shit about some boring chapter with the Munchkin's book of life?" Kanda demanded, throwing his hands in the air angrily. "It still doesn't explain why he's in there, _still asleep_, and probably bleeding tears all over the sheets like a girl."

"Wow that was definitely not sexist," Lenalee said with wide eyes. "You are so accepting, you Jap son of a bunk."

Lavi sighed, scratching under his headband again. "He's…he's got some issues," he tried to explain carefully. "And they are issues that he should probably take some time out to deal with himself, word?"

"No, no word," Kanda retorted. "Why the fuck is he dealing with it himself? I don't fuckin' _get_ you sometimes Cyclops—you apparently love the kid, and then you fuck him over. Why are _you_ such a dick, asswipe?"

"Hey, _dumbass_, we're not playing the Yuu Blame Game today," Lavi replied, his amiable persona cracking and a true frown forming on his face. "I'm saying we should let him deal with it himself because _we cannot relate_. What Allen is going through is something that we haven't really experienced, and all we can do is be nearby while he figures out where to go from here. I can't explain it any further, you guys—stop being idiots and just _let him be_."

Lenalee hummed in thought, crossing her arms. "Are you telling us that we shouldn't fight his battles for him because we don't know what he's fighting against?" she tried, cocking an eyebrow.

The drummer furrowed his brow, but then nodded very cautiously. "I—I think that's what I was going for, but with more _let him tell us what he wants us to do_, ya dig?" he said, scratching his lightly stubbled chin. "I don't wanna leave him…but I also don't wanna overstep, if that makes any sense."

"_If that makes any sense—_fucker, you _never_ make sense—" Kanda ranted, pointing at Lavi and generally being an ass. Lenalee blinked at the redhead, a contemplative expression on her face.

"I get what you are saying," she said after a couple of minutes, and Kanda closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. He looked at her with a questioning frown, and she shrugged. "I get it, but I still don't agree."

Lavi huffed. "Whaddaya mean?" he asked, crossing his arms. "What do _you_ think we should do, Oh Esteemed Frontman?"

"I will twist your balls off if you take that tone with me again," Lenalee began with a simple threat. She continued, "But I'm saying, we should let him tell us what he wants us to do—but we shouldn't leave him alone to do that. I _thought_ we were leaving alone because he gave Lavi a specific order to do so…but now I realize that SAT scores don't make you smart in the matters of the heart."

She threw a glare at the redhead, who held up his hands in surrender. "We all wanna do what we think is best," he replied with a smile, strained as it was. "And I was just doin' my part. Sorry, Missus Lee."

"No, I understand why you did it, and I think its super sweet," Lenalee said with an answering smile. "But now we have to decide what to do from here."

Kanda snorted. "Well," he began with a huff. "I'm gonna combine what I got from you—with what I've been wanting to do since yesterday evening."

The other two looked at each other with wary expressions, and the singer opened her mouth carefully. "Which is…what?"

Kanda turned on his heel and stalked towards the suite door, and the duo watched with acute horror as he slammed open the door with as much finesse as a Neanderthal.

"Hey, Pacman Junior," he called out, flicking on the lights. "It's time to wake the fuck up, kid."

Lenalee and Lavi rushed to the door, ready to tackle and restrain the crude guitarist with whatever it took.

"Good morning dearest," Allen's grainy, morning-deepened voice replied, and the two paused in their possible assault. The English boy coughed into his fist a couple of times, and when he spoke again his balls obviously retracted to bless him with his usual light tenor. "You've all been arguing outside for thirty minutes, and I'm hazarding a guess that it's about me."

"Don't be so full of yourself," Kanda replied stepping deeper into the room. He crossed his arms, standing above the boy on the bed in some weird, looming pose. "Even though they kind of were, for some dumb reason. But I'm gonna acknowledge you've had a shitty couple of days anyway. I mean, it's not like the shitty year I've had since I've met you, but its close enough."

"Fair enough, I'd suppose," Allen rolled his eyes. "But it's alright. You shouldn't let my emotions mess your efforts for today—"

Lavi stepped up. "That is definite-o a no-no," he said with a bashful grin. "Since Lenalee's telling me it would be retarded that we leave you alone any further."

"Well, I'd disagree, in a way," the white-haired boy said, smiling at him. "Yesterday was…emotionally scarring, and healing, all at once. It was a _lot_ to take in, in all honesty." He wrapped his arms around himself, adopting a somewhat guarded pose. "I find out my uncle, the last living link I have to my father, has been in contact with my other uncle all these years, he's a recovering addict, and he apparently never stopped caring for me. It was…a lot."

"The _Musician_ was a recovering addict?" Lavi whispered to Lenalee, who shrugged with a helpless expression.

"But I appreciated the time alone," Allen continued, smiling brightly at Lavi, who sat up in surprise. "I got to…ponder some things, I'd say. I guess you could say I salvaged the whole emotional wreck for the better."

There was a steady silence in the room after those words, cryptic as they were.

Lenalee thought, not for the first time, about how much she wanted this.

About how much she wanted to be _famous_, to be a real Madonna, to rock the music scene like none other. She wanted to walk into a record shop, instead of working at one, and look at the best seller's section and see herself. She wanted to turn on the radio, and hear something she helped create. She wanted _so much_—

But she _knew_ that it was near to impossible. She wasn't guaranteed fame just by being in a band, she couldn't be a Madonna when she was barely a Jane Wiedlin, and she couldn't rock the music scene without everyone in the band.

_I don't want to be with anyone else,_ she thought as her gaze fell on each of the boys in their awfully ragtag group. _I want to make music…but I don't want to do it without any of you._

"I don't want to make music without you," she spoke up, rubbing her itching eyes because she was totally not tearing up. "Allen, I swear to Christ, if you're not in—I'm definitely out."

"Me _dos_," Lavi agreed, hands on his hips. "I can't rock a _Black Order_ that's missing any of the _Order_." His face became serious, and the eyepatch actually made it all kind of ominous. "If you don't wanna do this anymore, man—we don't have to."

Allen looked utterly shocked, which was understandable since this did come out of left field.

"W-well, I mean—"

Kanda scoffed, and plopped on the bed next to Allen's blanketed thigh. Lenalee's eyes widened to proportions she didn't think possible. "Blah blah, everyone's gay yadda whatever," he snapped. He pointed an accusing finger at the younger boy's surprised face. "So now it's up to you, Cabbage Patch. Tell us what _you_ want us to do for you."

Leave it to Kanda to make decision making _mega_ tense. And funnily insulting.

"I…" Allen started, and his eyes darted to the three other members of the band. He licked his lips, and wrung his hands worriedly. "I…I believe this is the last day of competition, correct?"

"Yes indeed," Lavi affirmed, smiling wide. "This is the end."

"Beautiful friend," Lenalee added.

The English boy smiled brightly before laughing. "Swell! Right then!" he shoved the covers off himself, exposing his pajamas of an old tight t-shirt and boxers. Kanda looked away, after a short moment. "I think—I think we should give it all we've got today. Let's kick some arse this fine afternoon!"

"K-Rad!" Lavi exclaimed, rushing to the bed and leaping on top of Allen's legs. He landed with an "Oof!" as the younger teen retracted his legs just in time, a laugh spilling from his lips.

"Excellent!" Lenalee cheered, and she also climbed onto the bed next to Allen. She threw her arms around him for a tight hug, one of which he gladly reciprocated. "This is gonna be radical, dudes, I swear!"

Kanda rolled his eyes. "This is stupid," he muttered, and made to get off the bed. He probably would've been successful too, if it weren't for the fact that his friends (probably enemies at this rate) all grabbed him in a terrible, multi-armed hug that forced him to plop his back on the mattress. "Do my eyes deceive me—or did you all want to be murdered?"

"_Shhh_, love," Allen whispered sarcastically. "We're trying to have a moment without you ruining it."

Lavi grinned. "This is also a great excuse to grab at your nipples, Nip," he said, and cupped Kanda's pectorals like they were supple breasts.

"Oh man," Lenalee whimpered, and immediately let go of Kanda before she could get caught in the crossfire.

Kanda did not immediately disembowel Lavi. "Hey, what do you think of this for a slasher movie?" he asked Lavi with a deceptive calm. "_'I'm Going to Castrate You Through Your Spine In Your Sleep Tonight_,' sounds legit, right? I'm thinking of filming it."

"When?" Lavi played along.

"Now." And he punched the redhead in the throat, forcing him to release Kanda while grasping at his neck.

"Ach! Graugh!" Lavi coughed, rubbing his neck furiously. "Holy Christ, you're so psycho! You're lucky I'm not the singer for this group, numbnuts!"

"Actually, I think we're blessed on that note," Allen said shrewdly, and shared a high-five with Lenalee.

This day was looking to be pretty okay.

* * *

"I am about to _ruin_ the _Black Order_'s day," Sherman said with no small amount of glee. "As well as _Lamppost_, the _Forces of Romance_, and _Seattle_. But mostly the _Black Order_."

"What's wrong with _Seattle_?" Rhode asked with a frown. "They didn't completely fucking suck."

Sherman gave her a look like it was to be painfully obvious. "They are named after a shitty American city, much in the vein of _Boston, Chicago,_ and _Kansas_—"

"Kansas is a state," Lulu spoke up, but he ignored her.

"—and honestly I just hate Seattle." The VJ shrugged. "I'm not a rainy fellow."

Tyki squinted at him from behind his glasses. "You went to school in England," he argued.

"I will find a way to drop you out of this competition without it being detrimental to your rising popularity if you all keep talking back to me," Sherman threatened, and was appeased by the tired expressions of defeat from his band. He frowned, though, once he realized that there were members missing. "Where are Jasdero, David, and Skin? Did you not tell them to come with you?"

Rhode raised her hand. "Well…no, we didn't, first of all," she admitted with no shame. "But Jasdavid were in a rush mode to get a new stand for their synth after the misfortunate end to the other one yesterday. Skin went with them for, like, security or something."

"Speaking of yesterday," Tyki started, a frown marring his handsome face. "What the _fuck_, Sheryl?"

Lulu also looked disapproving. "You're up to something," she accused. "Something real, _real_ shifty."

Sherman scoffed, swinging his chair around with a flick of the wrist, and sat down. "I'm not _up_ to anything," he corrected with a smirk. "I'm doing what is expected of my job as competition spokesman. And current coordinator-in-charge."

"But Earl is the manager," Lulu said, blinking in shock. "As well as the coordinator. And Wisely is second in line after Earl. Sherman, what the fuck?"

"Such language is unbefitting a beautiful woman such as yourself," Sherman cooed, giving her a flirty smile and watched her turn away with only a little annoyance. "The Earl is…preoccupied, of course. And concerning Wisely—he's a bit too busy to do his job…so I'm doing it for him."

The three members of _Noah's Ark_ stared at him with no small amount of confusion.

"Okay, okay," Rhode threw her hands in the air exasperatedly. "There is some nefarious shit going on right now. Dad, spill."

"Language, Rhode-Darling," Sherman said patiently, and he crossed his legs haughtily. If that was a valid way to cross one's legs. "But, I will tell you what I was planning on earlier anyway. Tell me, what do you feel about the _Black Order_?"

"Gorgeous keyboardist," Tyki answered immediately, his expression brightening. "With hair like new sheets and a body to launch an army. His accent makes you look like a schmuck. His skin reminds me of whip cream—equally as lickable—"

"Still fifteen," Rhode whispered loudly.

"…Right," the bespectacled man coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "And still slightly under the age of consent."

Sherman stared at him in disgust. "Other than my younger brother's awkwardly pedophilic tendencies, what does _everyone else_ think?"

"Well, I think they are a fine, if not vaguely talented, group of kids," Lulu replied, blinking.

"Do you find them a threat?" Sherman pressed, threading his fingers together and resting them upon his knees.

"Not really," Rhode said, playing with the laces to her combat boots. "I mean, they're _okay_, for a two-bit band with oddly hot members."

"They are all quite attractive," Lulu agreed.

Sherman hummed, turning around to a table covered in papers and clippings. "How would you feel then," he said, grabbing a stack of papers and bringing them to his front. "If I told you the _Black Order_ was going to win?"

"Well," Tyki said, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt. "I wouldn't believe you." No offense to the _Black Order_, of course.

"Which is great, because they aren't," the curly-haired VJ said with a wide grin that showed a bit too much teeth. "But they were in danger for a short moment. Your hard earned scores and my illustrious influence have kept you ahead so far, but the _Black Order_ has been an unaccounted for threat that I was not expecting when I first spoke to the Earl."

Tyki did a double take. "Wait, what—"

"Ah, I never told you all about that, did I?" Sherman mused aloud, tapping his chin. "Well then. If you remember those three months ago wherein I asked you a series of questions about the _Black Order_?"

"Vaguely."

"Jesus Christ—okay, anyway." The older man huffed. "Well, later that week, when I called the Earl—you'd be surprised to discover that he already knew of the _Black Order_. And, he gave me some hogwash spiel about needed a third judge that just made sense to me right now, but that's not as important." Sherman smirked. "What _is_ important, is the _Black Order_'s place in this plan is nearly done."

Holy shit, what the hell was the guy talking about. Tyki rubbed his temples with a look of acute suffering. "What the _hell_ are you talking about, Sheryl?" he demanded.

Sherman sighed, shaking his head. "Theresa, my darling baby brother, my name isn't Sheryl," he scolded gently. "And I'm going to explain this as simply as possible, so you can understand with your Virginia State University education."

"Fuck _you_—"

"The entire point of getting the _Black Order_ here was pretty much to boost your popularity," Sherman said seriously, his golden eyes hard and gleaming with eerie intelligence. "We needed one more band from Hampton, one that was good—but not too good. A band to promote the area, and you."

Rhode blinked. "I am confused off my balls right now," she admitted. "I kid you not."

"You don't have balls—" Tyki started, but she put up a hand to stop him.

"But if I did, I wouldn't have them now because I am mega perplexatron," she replied calmly.

"You made that up."

"Sue me, I'm innovative." Rhode turned back to her father, who had returned to rubbing his temples like it pained him to be on this very earth. "So, pops, what's the 411 on whatever the hell you are talking about."

Sherman obviously started to ignore her language. "Music, before anything, is a business," he explained, leaning back in his seat. "It has and will always be a business—of entertainment, of wills, of everything. Music is made for making _money_."

He pointed at Tyki, who felt an uncomfortable, cold feeling drop through his stomach. "You are a great singer, I will admit," Sherman continued. "But first and foremost, you are _very_ attractive."

"Well, thanks, I agree—"

"And we've spent a lot of time marketing around your devilishly good looks, Tyki. You _are_ the frontman for a reason. You're always interviewed and photographed for those ridiculous female magazines. Music videos are usually centered around you and Lulu, on the occasion Rhode. Not being you aren't beautiful, darling, but because we aren't exactly aiming for the pedophilic market despite the preferences of my little brother."

Rhode settled down, temporarily appeased.

"Unfortunately, while your music is currently still fairly high on the charts, especially in Australia—your popularity…is beginning to wane." Sherman shuddered as he admitted this fact.

Lulu made a noise of discontent. "Last we checked, we were still number 7 on the _Favourite New Band_ list in _New Wave Mag_!" she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Last _you_ checked, however, was three months ago, and that wasn't even a margin of an indicator of your popularity. Magazines've lulled in their requests for interviews…concerts are sold out, but not by as high numbers as they used to, and," here Sherman stilled himself, scowling. "Record sales for the new album aren't going as well as we thought, due to putting it on a CD."

"_Fuck_!" Tyki cursed, smacking his forehead. He stood up, gesticulating wildly as he spoke. "I _told_ you! _Eu disse a você—eu disse, 'they will not sell!'_ Barely anyone has the fucking technology, _genió_!"

"_Cale a boca! Você não pode falar comigo—_" Sherman snapped, standing up and poking his brother roughly in the chest, and Rhode really had to stop this before it became a big Portuguese argument that nobody could understand. She only took Spanish for a year, geez.

"Okay, okay, we get it," she rolled her eyes. "Dad's half-Portuguese and you're just a regular Don Columbus. However, I am still just seventy-five percent Not-Spanish, and I honestly don't know what the hell either of you are saying."

Lulu shrugged. "I only speak American English," she added. "Sometimes I can do British accents if I chill with Jasdavid long enough."

The two men shared an odd look of confusion, and slowly returned to their seats with wary eyes at each other.

"…Indeed," Sherman cleared his throat, shifting his eyes away from Tyki's unimpressed visage. "Well, anyway. As I was saying—_Noah's Ark_ is not doing as well in the polls, and we needed a quick popularity boost. Did you know that you weren't originally supposed to perform in this _Battle of the Bands_? This was all the _Earl_'s idea, for the half-hearted sake of scoping out new bands…and helping his current ones.

"I signed you all up after a couple of marketing figures as well as further possibilities, and talked it over with the _Earl_. He agreed that your presence would be fairly exciting, and might incite the media…but it wouldn't be as much without a bit of healthy competition."

Tyki's eyes widened behind his glasses. "That's why you wanted to know about the _Black Order_ at that time!" he gasped. Wasn't that the day he hit that guy with his car? Jesus, what a time.

"Precisely." Sherman nodded. "You see, even though Tyki is a beautiful specimen of human, we need to remind your audience that we still make music."

"And that the music we make," Lulu deduced with a frown. "Is better than other bands?"

"Ex_act_ly," the VJ clapped his hands together in delight. "So we needed a band from the same area as _Noah's Ark_—an up and coming band, with lots of adorable potential and energy and little professional experience. Audiences adore bands like the _Black Order_ in the beginning—but not for long."

Rhode snorted. "Then why're we fucking up their day, then?" she asked.

"The _Black Order_…" Sherman pursed his lips as he tried to figure out how to word his next statement. "Is not what I…expected."

"They work well under pressure?" Lulu deadpanned.

"They are actually fairly talented?" Tyki tried next.

"They are _good_?" Rhode asked with a roll of her eyes.

"I hate you all sometimes," Sherman said with a smile. "Just so you know. Except you, my dear Rhode—I only slightly dislike you right now." His expression turned serious. "But yes to all of those. The _Black Order _has actually become more detrimental to your popularity than helpful. But, and I thank all those pagan gods for this—they are soon to be disqualified."

Tyki was sure if he were drinking wine or something right now, it would fall out of his hand super dramatically like in his favorite daytime dramas.

"Wh-what? _What_?" he demanded, gripping his knee with tightly clenched fingers. "What the hell do you _mean_?"

"Does this have anything to do with yesterday's events?" Lulu asked, obviously disturbed.

Rhode even looked a little bothered. "Dad, what're you planning?"

Sherman smirked, straightening the papers in his hands. "I'm just going to fight fire," he replied. "With family."

* * *

"_Would the _Black Order_ and all associated members please come to the reception area at the upper left field? I repeat, would the _Black Order _and all associated members please come to the reception area_?"

Madarao looked up, squinting at the morning sun with his guitar case in his hands. "What do ya think's up?" he asked Goushi, whom also searched around curiously.

"Dunno," the large man grunted. "Don' care."

"Yes you _do_," Tokusa crowed, jabbing a finger at the drummer's stomach. "Jus' as much as me and Mada and Kiredori—"

"I actually don't give a shit," Kiredori interrupted with a disinterested expression. And he sounded completely sincere. "Like, seriously. Who cares? It's the _Black Order_. Not _Third_. You guys are being mad creepy with this _Black Orda'_ obsession."

Madarao frequently forgot that his younger brother actually didn't know Kanda very well, and thereby would truly give the least amount of shits out of everyone else in the band.

However, "We ain't bein' creepy, Kiredweeb," he argued, looking around the crowds surrounding them to find any and all members of the _Black Order_. "I'm tellin' ya, we're just checkin' up on an old friend—"

"You're creepin' on Alma's old prepubescent boyfriend," Kiredori corrected, although he wasn't correct. "And you are doin' it like _you_ wanna pursue a relationship with this joke. Ew. I _thought_ you were straight, and if ya _were_ gay—I was so sure it would be you and Tocuntface over the'ah." He jabbed a thumb towards the admittedly homosexual member of the band, who just flipped his middle finger at the younger male.

"At least he would have taste," Tokusa said with a huff.

Kiredori stared at him. "No," he replied. "No he wouldn't."

And Madarao immediately shut out the corresponding and probably loud argument by calmly putting both his index fingers in his ears.

"_Too shy, shyyy, hush hush, I do I,_" he hummed, and then realized that he was basically humming one of the songs the _Black Order_ performed yesterday.

That was…a little creepy. Admittedly.

"Yo," Goushi grumbled, poking the singer roughly in the shoulder. Madarao looked up at him, and then followed the arm that was pointing in what seemed to be the general direction of someone with white hair.

But there weren't many people at this event with hair _that_ white.

"Either that's my Zufu, or that dopey looking keyboard player from the _Black Orda'_ is headed towards th' tents," he said with an interested expression.

Tokusa sat up from his argument, excited. "You spot Kanda, too?" he demanded.

Madarao squinted his eyes, and finally caught sight of a disgruntled Asian man following behind the wacky looking keyboardist and what had to have been Lavi, which all that red hair. He hummed in surprise, and Goushi looked down at him with a questioning expression.

"Whaddaya think?" he asked.

Madarao straightened his back, and shouldered his guitar case with ease. "I got a bad feelin' about this," he said, and he really did. There was something weird about the atmosphere of this last day, and if it had anything to do with Kanda—well, the _Black Order_—then Madarao wasn't leaving without a fight. "I'mma catch what's going on—we've got like three hours until we have to do anything, so I can do it."

Kiredori sighed heavily. "Firs' of all—you're _so fuckin' creepy_," he deadpanned. "Secondly, we still need'ta _practice_, idiot. With all th' seriousness—_don't take too long_."

Tokusa nodded. "He's gotta point," he agreed reluctantly. His face brightened immediately. "But I'm comin' with! I'm mad curious, man, on what's happenin'!"

Madarao looked up at Goushi. "You wanna stay or…?" he offered.

The large man huffed in laughter. "Tell me what happens in the end," he said, patting his shoulder.

"Cool," Madarao replied with a simple nod. He turned towards the direction he saw their rival band go towards, and once Tokusa reached his side they took off through the thick crowds towards the reception area.

"Y'know," Tokusa said as they shoved through the surrounding people. "I've gotta real shitty vibe from this too."

Madarao glanced at him, meeting his brown, narrowed eyes.

They walked a little faster.

* * *

"_Black Order_, I'm sorry to say this, but," Sherman began with a delighted smile. "You've been disqualified."

Lenalee felt her heart drop like a rock into her stomach.

"N-no," she stammered, wrapping her arms around herself as a chill slithered through her spine and across her skin. "No, we aren't, you can't be fucking serious, no—"

"He's not fucking serious," Kanda snarled, his fingers digging into his forearms and leaving trails of pink against his off-white skin. "This is just some elaborate ass joke via Pee Wee Camelot. And if it isn't, then, it'll be a sad day for VH1 when their favourite jerk ends up in the ocean." He cracked his knuckles to accentuate his point, and rather effectively at that.

Allen crossed his arms, a tight expression on his face. "How did I know something like this would happen," he said with little to no inflection in his voice. If Lenalee had to be real, it was kind of terrifying at the time. "Just based on the fact that you're a wanker who takes enjoyment in other's pain."

Sherman's grin widened, and Lenalee seriously wanted to punch it off his face. _I really found this bunk attractive?_ It was definitely time to reevaluate her taste in men.

"I'm sorry that this happened," he said, hooking his thumbs in his khaki pockets. "But don't you think you're taking this rather hard?"

There was an immediate cacophony of malicious curses that Sherman _must've_ anticipated, because he just chuckled like this was some sort of hilarious pun.

Lavi cocked his head. "Why are we being disqualified?" he asked after the noise died down a bit, and everyone looked back at him with a bit of shock. He was so quiet in all the bullshit that Lenalee nearly forgot he was there. "What? I was just thinking about reasons for us to be disqualified! I mean, not that I'm some sort of saint when it comes to this shit—but I'm just _really_ sure that we didn't do anything worth disqualification."

Sherman's smile dropped.

Lenalee felt warmth pool in her stomach, and a smile came to her own face.

And then Sherman's sudden smirk killed both the warmth and the smile.

"You're cute," he said, giving Lavi a pretty rude look over. "But you're still so very, _very_ dumb."

Lavi frowned. "Hey, dickbag," he replied. "You can't call me dumb unless you've got a masters degree at an Ivy League school, bro."

"Masters in Mass Communication, Oxford," Sherman replied with a smile. "Do you feel vindicated, Idiotic Drummer Number 8?"

"Sure I do," the redhead replied, grinning. "As you're pretty much the prime example of a wasted masters in Mass Communication, since I asked you why we were being disqualified and you still can't give four teenagers a straight answer. Geez Louise, great thing Oxford only offered me a partial scholarship or else I would feel like I was missing out by not being there."

Sherman's smile dropped, _hard_, and a particularly dark expression fell over his handsome face.

Lenalee laughed nervously, since she had no idea that he got into Oxford and Sherman looked pretty pissed, while Allen looked like he didn't even know who the Messiah was anymore.

"How do you get into all of these incredible schools?" he demanded, eyebrows furrowed in English befuddlement. "And why did you not tell anyone, Lav'?"

"It's elementary, Strawberry Shortcake, since those schools were mega ease to get into anyway," Lavi said with a smile, clapping Allen on the shoulder. His tone became gentle. "And, my young love, you can't go around boning Yuu and then call me _love_ and expect me to not get crunched. I'm sorry, babe, but—"

"If you call me Strawberry Shortcake again," Allen cut him off smoothly. "I will bludgeon you with a gas can. And then I will set you on fire."

Lavi whistled, carefully removing his hand from the white-haired boy's shoulder. "Word," he agreed.

It seemed like if there was anything Sherman hated more than being proved an idiot, it was being ignored by a group of teenagers if the curled upper lip of his pretty unattractive sneer was any indication. "I've no idea why you're all so stuck in pursuing a career as a band," he said with crossed arms. "When you've so much potential as a comedy troupe."

The band looked at each other, unable to figure out if they should be insulted or—wait, there weren't any other options.

Insulted it was, then.

"Oh man, hardy har ha," Kanda said, his teeth bared in a common expression of rage. "I actually thought that was pretty funny, especially since I'm practicing this new act where I rearrange your face." He stretched his arms, biceps flexing with obvious threat. "You can be my practice dummy, so tell me—who do you like more? Bozo the Clown, or Herman Munster?"

The VJ snorted in laughter, rolling his eyes. "This is ridiculous," he said, and he began pacing the _Black Order_ in a slow circle, speaking all the while. "You wanted to know why you were disqualified, didn't you? For reasons other than having an idiotic drummer, an overly aggressive guitarist, this…_ponce_ of a keyboardist, and your singer that I can't actually find too much fault in other than her lack of real range?"

Allen sighed. "Lord save us," he prayed, rubbing his temples. "I'd rather sit through another painfully awkward talk with my uncle than listen to this pile of bollocks."

Sherman stopped, a wide grin stretching on his face. "Which is funny that you should mention," he said, gesticulating mockingly. "As that is exactly why you are being disqualified."

The English teen balked, and everyone else wasn't looking so pleased. "Because I don't want to hear your _shite_?" he demanded, and then coloured in embarrassment. "My apologies, that was crude."

"Oh please, like your friends haven't said worse," Sherman scoffed. His golden eyes, however, glinted with malicious intent, and the band members all felt an uncomfortable chill settle into the room. "I mean, you're being disqualified because of a very simple rule." He reached behind himself to pat at the desk, and pulled a pamphlet that he obviously had been waiting to use the entire time. "It's here in the book, where is it, oh, _yes_—paragraph three, bullet point four concerning qualifications to perform in the 1985 Battle of the Bands."

Lenalee held herself tensely as she dreaded the next words, despite not knowing what they could be.

However, when Sherman Camelot was making a face that smug, it couldn't be good.

"'_Participation is not valid,_'" Sherman read aloud with a wide smirk. "'_If any members of the contributing band are related or married to judging personnel of the event_.' Well, that's just unfortunate—your fairy for a keyboardist seems to be the blood nephew of one of the judges. To let you stay would be," here, he smiled, and Lenalee wanted to chainsaw his face off, "_unfair_."

The members of the _Black Order_ simultaneously made faces of absolute disgust.

Lenalee looked at Allen, who actually looked more legitimately distraught than anything.

"Allen…" she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinched back, and she cursed Sherman fucking Camelot to the end levels of hell.

"I'm, I'm terribly sorry," Allen said, rubbing his nose nervously. "I—I just—I'm _so sorry_, mates—I can't believe…"

"Shut up," Kanda snapped, shoving his shoulder. "This has nothing to do with you, Tiny Tim."

Lavi made a face. "Uh, dude, his uncle is the _Musician_—" he tried to argue, but Kanda was not having that shit today.

"You fucking _knew_," Kanda hissed, stepping up close into Sherman's personal space. "You _knew_ the _Musical_ or whatever his damn name is was the kid's uncle—you _knew_ he was going to show up. You fucking _knew_ this would happen, and on the last day of this shitty competition that you and your brother's faggot band dragged us to, you _disqualify_ us? Why? Were we going to win or something?"

Sherman raised an eyebrow. "You—"

"Wait, did you hear that—oh, _right_, that was the sound of _nobody telling you to fucking talk_," Kanda snarled, and Lenalee took a step forward to restrain him if possible. "You are seriously going to disqualify a bunch of goddamn _kids_ because of your favourite band? Wow—_who gives a shit_?" He paced throughout the tent, then, gesticulating angrily and his pale face turning an unattractive, blotchy red. "I didn't want to do this shit _anyway_, especially not with these dopey fucking mixed rules meant to fuck with the high school kids. Whatever man, _fuck you_—"

"Dude's seriously pissed," Lavi whispered into Lenalee's ear, and she could only nod in agreement as their guitarist stalked back and forth through the tent, yelling and ranting like he'd never done before. And that was his specialty, too.

She looked back at Allen, who was looking at his lightly scruffed All-Stars with a tight frown, and she felt so fucking terrible.

"This isn't your fault," she said to him, ignoring his short scoff. "I'm dead cereal—this isn't because of you. This is really _Noah's Ark_'s fault, if I have to point at anyone, dude."

Lavi blinked in confusion. "Wait, why is it their fault?" he asked, perplexed. "I mean, not that I'm against hating Tyki Mikk or anything, but I was pretty sure that Sherman Cockalot is the main villain in issue 300 of the _Battle of the Bands_."

"Well, I don't know," Lenalee admitted, rubbing her bicep nervously. "I mean, I guess I kinda found it weird that we got here and only had to really spend, like, gas money and food cash, and everything's covered by the Earl, who is also the head dude for the _Millennium Label_ which is the label for _Noah's Ark_. All we had to do was win a football game, so I don't know." She shrugged. "I've been kind of weirded out about it."

"That, that makes a lotta sense, actually," Lavi mused, furrowing his eyebrows. "Well, fuck, that kinda sucks."

Kanda and Sherman were still deep in a loud, snarky argument that was pretty much a sure guarantee that they will probably never be accepted into an event hosted by Sherman Camelot again.

Allen cleared his throat. "Can I not perform?" he asked loudly, tapping his foot nervously. When his fellow band members turned to him with varying expressions of surprise, he audibly sucked in a large stream of air. "It's easy—there, there aren't any rules pertaining to team members dropping out, yeah?"

Lenalee's mouth opened, closed, pursed, and then opened again—but not before Sherman spoke up with a loud laugh. "Walker, _Walker_," he purred, stepping towards the white-haired boy with a wide smirk. "I can't tell whether it's admirable or adorable—both your weak attempt at salvaging the situation or your beloved, absent uncle's mistaken attempt at reconciling your lost affection. The answer is, _no_, when one member drops out, the _band_ drops out." When Allen's eyes widened, Sherman stopped walking. He looked down at the boy with cold, golden eyes. "But, here's the funny thing—if you, oh, _hadn't_ known the old crack was related to you, then it would be unfair to disqualify you and your shitty band, correct? We wouldn't even be having this problem right now, if that were the case."

"That's, that's bollocks!" Allen hissed, clenching his fists tightly. Lenalee hesitated—she didn't know whether to take a step closer, or to let the younger teen handle it himself. She tried a glance at Kanda, who was watching the event with a sort of eerie restraint—kind of like a wild animal. Lavi, on Kanda's right, just looked as curious as ever.

But his expression edged on something weird, Lenalee thought with a frown. What the hell was going on with them?

"Who will you blame, then, for the fact that you've basically ruined your chance of a lifetime?" Sherman questioned, his brow raised in amusement. "How will you _kids_ make it 'big,'" he went through the effort of lifting his hands to emulate quotation marks. "When you couldn't even make it past a simple band battle because of a little family drama? Walker—please, tell me."

Allen stood still, his eyes shifted to the side. But, Lenalee noted with a small smile, he still stood tall.

"You, sir, and I mean this in the kindest way possible," he started, snapping his gaze to the older man. "Can choke on a cock."

Kanda squinted. "Okay, fuck, I didn't think he'd say that," he admitted with a surprised set to his lips. Lavi covered his mouth to smother the cackling laughter, and Lenalee prayed to god in the sky that they were able to get jobs doing _anything_ later in life after this.

Sherman blinked.

Allen continued. "I try, _very hard_, to see the goodness in human kind," he spoke, crossing his arms across his chest. And, oh god, his accent was peeking out—and it was peeking out _hard_. "And thereby, I don't find you to be an evil man—I just want you to go fuck yerself on a bloody spike. Ye don't dictate _shite_, sir, and I mean that in th' broadest term. Ye sit about, on some two-bit daft show on the telly, as, what, a _video jockey_? Can't be fagged to get a position as something _better_? You control nothin', mate—nothin' on ye show, nothin' on these stages, and nothin' in _our_ future."

"I _knew_ you were as crude as your friends," Sherman stated with a chuckle, which died down as soon as Allen rolled his gray eyes and cleared his throat.

"No, I'm not as crude as, say, Kanda, but I mean every word I say," he replied calmly. "Ye wanna bring my uncle into this? That's fine, I ain't narked about it. Maybe, maybe ye brought him here to fuck wit' both'a us, or maybe ye legitimately needed another judge and he was the only bloke—but what's done is done, and yeah, I was bothered for a bit. But, but now, I'm glad to know he's alive, and that he loves me, and even missed me—"

"Approaching _Fag Town_ at about a hundred miles per hour," Kanda said, and shrugged when he received a flip of the middle finger.

"And it's gonna take me some time to get used to the knowledge of him, but, really, I'd like to thank ya and your shite attempt at ruining us," Allen said with a smile. "And, concerning our disqualification, allow me to talk with my fellow band members, if you'd please?"

Sherman, his tanned skin unable to flush, gaped unattractively. Well, Lenalee tried to see it as unattractive, but some things can't be changed immediately.

Allen stepped away from the man, and the other three immediately crowded him in a close huddle.

"That was so fucking hot," Lavi whispered. "Like, wow, your accent is mad rad, and when you get bitchy, you get _bitchy_, dude!"

"You were kind of bitchy," Lenalee agreed. "God I hope we aren't assassinated after this, man."

Allen laughed nervously. "Wow, thanks mates," he said. "But, that's not the reason we're grouped right now. This is going to sound hilariously hypocritical coming from me, but we need to decide on this as a team," he cleared his throat. "All in favor of dropping out the competition?"

Lenalee did not hesitate this time. "Uh, _yeah_, dude," she said sternly, believing truly that this was the best decision they could make.

"Totally, bro," Lavi agreed.

Kanda, after saying a grand total of nothing, left the huddle. Allen shot up after him, his eyes wide. "Kanda, what are you—"

"Fuck you _dickweed_, " Kanda snapped, a cruel grin on his lips. "You can shove that disqualification up your loose, partially Puerto Rican _ass_—we fucking _quit_."

And then he walked out.

Lavi clapped four times. "Wow I really love that guy," he said offhandedly with a grin. Then, he also walked out, and Lenalee was about to follow—but not before she looped her arm with Allen's.

"We'll see you on the flipside, dude," she said with a smile to the man, who was _definitely _getting angrier by the second.

Allen shot off a jaunty wave. "Enjoy your shite competition," he called. "And tell Tyki I said hi!"

Then, they were out of that shitty place.

* * *

Allen was greeted from the expedition to the outside with the overwhelming urge to bury himself alive and a hi-five hovering above his head.

"Up _top_, man!" Tokusa crowed, his hand still high in the air. Lavi and Kanda stood to the side with Madarao, and even Lenalee was looking kind of confused. "Dude, ya can't leave me hangin' afta a righteous performance like _that_!"

Allen, confused as he was, slapped the hand lightly. "What is it that I did again?" he asked.

"Other than tear Sherman _fuckin'_ Camelot at least three new assholes and drop outta this competition like you guys are the kings of _rock_—nothin' much," Tokusa said, his thin lips stretched wide in a toothy grin. "Like, Allen, man, _you_ are the fuckin' master of the universe—fuck that He-Man bullshit, you earned that shit!"

Oh, right. That. How did they even know about that?

"Oh my god, you're right," Allen whispered, touching his temple softly. "I tore Sherman Camelot three new assholes—_Sherman bloody Camelot_. Wow—I. I did that. I did _that_."

"You told him to fuck himself on a bloody spike," Kanda said, _completely helpfully_.

"I told him to fuck himse—wow, I am incredible," the English teen said with a disbelieving laugh. "I am incredibly _stupid_—we need to get the bloody hell outta here, mates! Like, Audi 5000, mates!"

Lavi furrowed his brow. "Wait, I didn't get that one, who said that? On what show?" he demanded. "It doesn't sound very English, so it's gotta be American, right?"

Allen rolled his eyes. "Does it really matter? Does it _really_?" he insisted. "Because, no. It doesn't. We need to pack up, and we need to leave."

Lenalee pack him on the top of his white head, laughing. "Chill, dude—let's at least get lunch! I know all that badassness worked up a huge appetite, dude. Come on!" She started tugging Allen away from the group towards the parking lot by his arm, and he resisted heavily.

In the corner of his eye, however, he noticed Kanda and Lavi weren't following, choosing instead to converse with Tokusa and Madarao a little longer. Allen didn't really know the story with those four, and he was ready to admit that he was worried something negative would happen from their interaction based on Kanda's usual reactions to seeing the two musicians.

But, after a while, Kanda smiled a little. It was small, and probably made a creaking sound if Allen were closer to hear it, but it existed, and it was directed at the two New Yorkers.

"Helloooo? Command board to Allen! Dude, let's chow before Sherman kills our families!" Lenalee exclaimed, breaking the white-haired teen out of his reverie.

He turned around, Lenalee still latched to his arm, and lead the way with a wide smile. "I'm always down for a meal, of course," he said. "But, let's wait for our other mates, yeah?"

* * *

Kanda, noticing the two chicks in the band wandering away, took a step to follow them—but, god fucking _Christ_, he was stopped by a stern hand gripping his shoulder.

"Kanda, please, hear me out," Madarao started as soon as the other man turned around with a near growl. "I swear t' Christ, after this, I'll quit buggin' ya—just, just hear me out."

The Japanese man squinted a bit, and turned to the red-haired freak that was probably just being nosey.

Lavi, cocking an eyebrow amusedly, shrugged. "I think you should, Yuu," he said, and Kanda let out an agitated breath.

"All right, whatever," he grumbled, crossing his arms grumpily. "But, what the fuck could you possibly have to say is _my_ question—I mean, other than 'sorry for stalking you across the East Coast and fucking with what should have been normal shitty and making it obscenely shitty?'"

Tokusa rolled his eyes. "Did ya get a crown when they inducted you 'Drama Queen?'" he muttered, and Kanda ignored it because Madarao elbowed the dick pretty fucking hard. He was pleased with that, at least.

"Numba' one, we didn't stalk ya," Madarao began with an amused tilt to his lips. "Numba' two, we didn't do anything shittier than ya tiny piano man Allen—jeez I thought _I _was a tough talker, but man, Allen showed us all up."

"Are we going to talk about shit other than the kid or?" Kanda snapped, scowling. He was already pissed that these dick bags were going to report every fucking thing back to Zu _and_ that fucking jerk, and he really didn't want to talk to them about particulars of his life—one of those particulars being the kid, obviously.

Madarao blinked slowly. "Okay, my bad then," he said carefully. "Um. Well." He cleared his throat, scratching underneath his chin thoughtfully. "Alright. Kanda, we wanna play with ya. Guitar, that is. We wanna—no, _I_ wanna…I wanna play one song witcha, man. Just one."

Kanda's breath caught in his throat, and he coughed a little as he covered his mouth. "W-what the fuck?" he demanded, his eyes wide. He turned to Lavi, who looked kind of shocked but he was asking a lot anyway to expect an appropriate reaction from this fucking guy. "Yo, fuck, man. I swear to Christ I'm not even tryin' to be a dick when I say this, but this is _not_ the time to ask this of me, skeezer!"

Tokusa, with a strained smile, covered his friend's mouth quickly and stepped forward. "Wha' he means is," he attempted to salvage the conversation. "He means, not now. Maybe not even fa' days, months, or years—but eventually, we wanna see you come back. You can keep fightin' it and shit, but we think that maybe one day you'll wanna play a song with us too. We jus' wanna see ya again…some of us more than others."

"Kiredori is one'na th' others," Madarao said, removing the hand just for the purpose of informing them.

Kanda scowled. "Kiredori's always been a little prick," he replied. He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to Christ a flush wasn't creeping up his skin. "But, I don't know about that other shit man."

Madarao looked at him with dark brown eyes that betrayed little to no emotion. "At least," he said with a shrug. "Keep in contact with _us_."

"We mean this in th' least gay way," Tokusa said with a grin that came across as creepy, in Kanda's right opinion. "But, we miss ya, man. Yer kind'a a dick now…but I wanna get to know you again."

Kanda couldn't help it—he smiled a little at that.

Lavi nudged him. "This is adorable as fuck," he whispered. "You are such a cutie right now, Yuu—yer blushin' aww! And _smiling_!" He tried to pinch his friend's cheek, and Kanda slapped that shit away quickly.

"Don't fuckin' touch me faggot," he snarled. "Jesus Christ why are you even here?"

"Emotional support," the waste of space replied with a smile. "And, c'mon, you can't say I'm not doin' that right—I'm helpin' _you_, man. _You_."

Kanda decided that it was basically time to ignore him for the rest of the conversation. "Okay," he turned back to Madarao and Tokusa, who both looked oddly amused. "_Okay_. Whatever. Either o' you whackjobs got a paper and pencil?"

The two members of _Third_ patted themselves down immediately, but among the high-waist ripped jeans and too big sleeveless shirts proclaiming their favorite rock bands as well as the ubiquitous metal jewelry and rhinestone fingerless gloves—there was no paper, nor a pencil.

"Sorry—"

"Ah fuck—" They both spoke at the same time, lightly touching parts of their bodies in their search.

Lavi laughed. "I gotta pen in my back pocket—might be outta ink soon, but if you wanna risk it—"

"Give me the fucking pen," Kanda said calmly, holding out his hand. Lavi, after digging in his back pockets a bit, pulled out a gnawed, BIC ballpoint. "If I get rabies after using this shit—" he grumbled, turning back to _Third_. He uncapped the pen with a displeased expression. "Okay, dweebs. Which of you wants to be on this hand job?"

An eerie silence overcame them as all four males looked at each other.

And then Tokusa nearly fell to his knees laughing, and everyone else that wasn't Kanda also started chuckling. "I-I love you," he wheezed. He held out his hand, wiping his narrow dark eyes with the other one. "I'll take this hand job." He winked, still snickering.

"You're so fucking gay," but Kanda grabbed his hand, palm upwards, and he roughly scribbled a series of numbers on the pinkish skin. "Don't wash your hands until you have that written down, or whatever it is you fuckin' morons do. I don't know. It means shit to me what you do with it."

He stretched his arms a bit, and turned around. "But, you assholes can't say I didn't try," he said with a shrug. He stopped, though. "Also, if you decide to call me or some shit, don't expect any long elaborate yuppie conversations—that long distance shit is _harsh_, losers."

Lavi rolled his eye, and Kanda had no idea why. Long distance calling was _really expensive_, like jesus Christ. They prepared to walk away, but Madarao lifted his hand in an effort to grab their attention again.

"I've gotta quick question—real quick," he said, stuffing his hands in his tight jean pockets. Kanda noted that he could basically see the hands from all the holes in that shit, however. "Do you guys—do you guys feel bad about droppin' outta the competition?"

Kanda contemplated the question. "I guess," he replied after a few moments. "We spent a lotta time and money gettin' here, and holy _fuck_ were we unprepared. We barely even knew yesterday was the cover song day and whatever. Shit kinda sucked, to be the realest."

"But," Lavi continued, unable to help adding his opinion. "We gave this shit all we had. We were ready to blow through this day, but." He shrugged helplessly. "We couldn't. But we tried."

"We'll see you losers on the flipside," Kanda finally ended the conversation, waving once at the two men before walking away as angry as ever. Lavi followed at a more peaceful pace, but the defeat was etched in both of their postures.

They did their best—now, it was time to get back.

* * *

Madarao and Tokusa shared a look of intrigue, and Tokusa glanced down at the calligraphic numbers written on his hand.

"What're ya thinkin'," Madarao asked, raising an eyebrow. When Tokusa tried for an innocent look, the singer scoffed loudly. "Yeah _right_ with that face, man. I know you're ont'a somethin'—what's goin' on…and how can I help?"

Tokusa grinned widely. "I'm just thinkin' about how I can turn this whole shitty show around in the best, or worst, way possible. So, I'mma 'bout t' call in some sort'a favor," he replied with his dry hand stuffed into his pocket. The other hand reached out to pat the blue-haired man on the cheek. "You can help by looking indifferent and intimidating—yeah, that's the face!"

Madarao waved the hand away from his mien, and cocked an eyebrow at the keyboardist curiously. "Huh, okay," he hummed. "I think I can do that much."

"Good!" Tokusa grabbed his arm. "Time to hit up the Marriott Hotel, man."

* * *

"Do we have everything?" Lavi asked as they checked over the hotel suite for a final sweep. "Like, no clothes, books, or discarded virginities lying around—ouch!" He rubbed his arm with a smiling wince. "Al, sweetheart, I didn't mean _yours_—please don't hit me again, that shit _does_ kind of hurt!"

Allen shrugged. "I don't use violence without reason," he replied sensibly. The white-haired boy spied Lenalee walking out the separate bedroom with her bags, a distinctly unhappy expression on her face. He tried to push down his bubbling guilt, and turned away from her with his own duffle bag slung over his shoulders. "I've got all my things."

"Awesome! Yo, Yuu, come on man!" Lavi called towards the bathroom, where the older man was doing whatever long-haired volatile Japanese men do in the bathroom. "If I have to be in this room for another minute, I'm gonna choke!"

"Jesus Christ would you _shut up_—" the door slammed open, and Kanda sauntered out with his hair in a hilariously neat bun at the back of his head. "If anyone laughs, I'm cutting off your nuts with a Bruce Springsteen record."

Allen cleared his throat multiple times. "Charming—let's go before I laugh in your face then," he said quickly, pivoting on his heel towards the door. He glanced at Lenalee, who caught his eye with a tiny smile. He grinned back, likely unconvincingly. "I don't think I can stand to be here much longer either."

* * *

Tyki Mikk was on his third cigarette in forty minutes. "You want me to do what, again?" he asked curiously as the weird keyboardist of that shitty rock and roll band stood in front of him, the singer of _Third_ closely behind him.

"This is basically yer fault, man," Tokusa reasoned, and Tyki stayed silent. "Your brother is a fuckin' dick, and you know as well as _I_ know that the _Black Orda'_ didn't deserve what happened to 'em. So, throw me a bone, Mikk—I asked ya to make sure they stayed in the competition, and whaddaya know…they _drop out_ t' keep from getting disqualified."

Tyki tried not to clench his teeth, but Christ this guy was going for the gold.

"We just wanted to compete against them at their best," Madarao explained. "And, I dunno what Kusa might've said t' ya, but if you promised to keep them up, you did a real shit job, Mikk."

"Let's say I did make such a ridiculous, impossible deal," Tyki replied, removing the cigarette from between his lips with two long fingers. He blew the smoke in his mouth in their direction, his golden eyes narrowed. "Why would I fuck up what I've got going on to help you _or_ the _Black Order_?" God, he sounded like a dick, but he was really curious to know.

Madarao looked at him really hard, but Tyki stayed strong and returned the gaze with equal contemplation.

"Have you ever wanted to jus' step outta your box of comfort and do the right thing instead'a the selfish one?" the Asian man asked after a while, cocking his head a bit to the side.

Tyki blinked. "I'm lost," he replied. "What do you mean, the 'right thing' as opposed to 'selfish'? I'm not being selfish by being in a better band—this industry is killer, and you know that. It's survival of the fittest, _Third_." He stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and took a long drag.

Madarao shook his head. "_You_, Tyki Mikk, aren't the fittest then," he answered. When Tyki's eyes snapped back to him, he continued. "I know how guys like you work, no matta' music or business. Ya had no real dreams, no other aspirations, and ya probably started off listenin' to real mellow rock and roll and ya dug it. But, you didn't join ya band because you really wanted to—you joined because you were _made _to, because ya couldn't find anything _better _for yourself. You're not in this t' make _anything_, let alone music."

"That's not—" Tyki tried to counter over his clenching heart, but the other man just continued on.

"Yer _new wave_ 'band,'" Madarao rolled his eyes. "Doesn't make music fer yaself—ya make that shit for a shitty group of people who you _know_ will pay you t' hear it. Yeah, yer shit's catchy, but at the end of the day, I can't feel where you guys're comin' from. But, we don't make music to make people happy—we make it to make _us_ better. Rock and roll changed my goddamn life, for th' betta' or worse, and I want t' make sure that _everyone_ who hears us gets an opportunity for change too.

"For you, Mikk, you want everyone t' stand up at the end of your show, and then ya never think of them again—but maybe you should think of other people than yerself." Madarao cleared his throat a little, and opened his mouth one more time. "And, with the seriousness, nobody is happy forever. The times are changin', man. Ya forced music may have gotten you started with a bang—but you guys're losin' momentum."

Tyki plucked the cigarette from his lips and tossed it to the side somewhere. His brow was furrowed and, yeah, he was getting really mad. "And what about you, then?" he demanded with a forced calm. "Rock and roll is dying, and soon you'll be playing concerts for an audience the size of a nursing home. What will you do _then_, _Third_?"

"Rock will only die," Tokusa answered this time, a wide grin on his pale face. "When you let it die. And, personally, I'm not exactly ready for that yet, and neither are the millions of people who brought it to life."

"Hmm," the Portuguese man hummed, breathing slowly as he tried to clear his head. How would anyone know or care that he didn't want to be in any of this—he shook his head quickly, dispelling those thoughts. _That's not the point_, he thought firmly. _The point is that, well, the hard rock bastards have a fucking point. _

"So, hypothetically," Tyki began, pushing himself off the front wall of the Mariott hotel. "Let's say I did help you out with the _Black Order_—what would you be good with giving up for them?" If he had to possibly sacrifice everything, he wasn't going down alone.

The two band members shared a look, and turned back to him with an interesting glint in their eyes.

"We've got that part down," Tokusa replied. "So, what, you willin' t' hear our plan now?"

Tyki smirked, crossing his arms. "I'll hear you out," he said. "But I think I've got a better one in mind."

* * *

"_And I've made up my mind,_" Lenalee wailed into the open wind as the van sped down the highway going north. "_I ain't wastin'_ _no more time_—"

"_Though I keep searchin' for an answer—_" Lavi sang along, nodding along with the blaring sound from the radio. "_I never seem to find what I'm lookin' for_!"

Allen, tucked comfortably into the spot between Lavi's trap set and behind the driver's seat, played air guitar softly as he also joined in. "_Oh Lord I pray,_" he hummed quietly. "_You give me the strength to carry on!_"

"'_Cause I know what it means,_" Lenalee sang, gazing out the window thoughtfully. "_To walk along the lonely street of dreams_!"

"_And here I go again on my ownnn!_" they all yelled, head banging heavily to the thumping drums and loud guitars. "_Goin' down the only road I've ever known! Like a twister I was booorn to walk alone! And I've made up my miiind_—_I ain't wastin' no more tiiimee!_"

"_I'm just another heart in need of rescue—_" and the radio station changed. "—_steppin' to the rhythm to a Kurtis Blow!_ _Who needs to think when your feet just go? With a hithedi-hop and a hithedi-hoo—who needs to think when your feet just go?_"

"Kanda, what the fuck?" Lenalee demanded as the culprit continued staring ahead with a normal bored expression. "Why did you change the radio? We were listening to that!"

"Whatever, I don't fuckin' care," Kanda replied calmly. "You nerds were depressing _me_ with that Whitesnake bullshit. What, you guys too good for Tom Tom Club now or something? You don't like white funk anymore?"

Lenalee slumped in her seat. "You're the worse, ugh," she grumbled, but a smile slipped onto her face.

"Yeah, well," Kanda kept driving down the empty highway, his face set in a smirk. "You'll get over it."

* * *

Neah did not need to drink. He didn't. Drinking was like using, and once you knock an addiction it's all so easy to fall back on the wrong track.

This is what he had to remind himself as he sat on the floor in his hotel room, head cradled in his hands and bottles of whiskey and gin strewn around the room open—but unused.

_Allen wouldn't want me to do this_, he tried to convince himself. _He looked real messed up when I told 'im about the coke—I need t' be able to see him again. I can't go back. I need to make him understand that I'll do anything to make him happy!_

The hotel issue phone rang loudly in the room, rattling heavily on its hook.

Neah looked up, his eyes rimmed with red from both crying and a lack of sleep. "Ah?" he grunted, glancing blurrily at the phone. He lifted himself up from the floor unsteadily and stumbled across the room. He picked up the phone with a scratchy, "Y'ello?"

"_Mr. Walker, good afternoon,_" the receptionist replied demurely. "_I was just calling to inform you that a_, _er, Tyki Mikk is here to speak to you with his associates? Would you like to see them?_"

Tyki Mikk? Wasn't that Sherman's bratty brother? "Ergh, ugh, all right. Let them come up, I'd suppose," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He didn't really care anymore—he just wanted to get this entire day over with, really.

"_I will Mr. Walker. Thank you._" The line beeped as the call disconnected.

Neah huffed, putting the phone back on the hook, and he looked back at the room. He had about an hour or so until it was time to judge the last competition—maybe he should get ready. He needed to be better prepared for his next meeting with his nephew, at least.

There was a knock at the door.

"Ach, that was quick," he grunted as he padded across the carpet to get to the door. He opened it a crack, and the handsome face of Tyki Mikk stared back at him with a friendly, if not completely fake, smile. "Oh. It really is you. Whadayya want, ah?"

Mikk pressed his hand against the door firmly, forcing it to open a bit more. Neah caught sight of the two 'associates,' and he furrowed his brow because he had no i-bloody-dea who those two blokes were. If they were both blokes, that is—the one with the ponytail was bugging with his mind. Damn the rock generation!

"We're here with both unfortunate news," Mikk started, straightening his posture. "And a great suggestion."

"Huh?" Neah blinked.

"For the news," Mikk rubbed his chin a bit nervously. "The _Black Order_ has been disqualified by Sherman Camelot, and they've dropped out of the competition."

"…_What_?" Neah demanded, throwing open the door. "What the bloody _fuck_ are ya talkin' about, Mikk?"

"But, before you get too angry," the singer continued. "We've got a plan to turn this battle around in their favor. Would you like to hear it, Mr. Musician?"

Neah, his chest heaving with his heavy, angry breaths, tried to calm himself down. "Tell me th' full story first," he grounded out, his brow narrowed furiously. "And then I'll hear you out."

His two associates glanced at each other. "We can promise ya, man," the blue-haired one with the bland expression said. "This plan is almost perfect."

"Yeah, well," Neah moved out of the way so the younger men could enter his room. "I'll be the judge of that."

* * *

They dropped Allen off first, and Kanda took no time in wishing him a happy lifetime of thirty more minutes and speeding down the road to deliver Lenalee to her deathbed.

Allen turned towards his house, and gulped. Cross's car was in the driveway, and never before had the Firebird been such a foreboding symbol in his lifetime.

_Well, you're going to die anyway,_ he thought carelessly. _Might as well get it over with, then_.

He walked very slowly towards the front door, his duffle bag clenched tightly in his hands, and sweat beading at his forehead.

"I can do this," he whispered, his eyes screwed shut. "I can do this. It's easy. I can do this."

He stepped up the porch steps, and raised his hand to knock at the door.

But, of course, the door swung open before he could even touch the bloody wood.

Cross stared down at him, the ever present cigarette hanging limply from his lips. "Huh," he started. "You're back later than I expected. I guess you're better than I gave you credit for kid." He narrowed his eyes. "I was really fucking worried, you little English shit."

Allen, his eyes watering faster than he ever thought, launched himself at his uncle, wrapping his arms around the man tightly. "I'm so—so _sorry_," he sobbed, pressing his face into the man's collar

A pair of arms encircled him, and held him closer. "I'm sorry too, kid," Cross whispered into his nephew's white hair. "I'm real sorry you had to go through with that. But, you're stronger for it, brat—you're better than you were before."

"Just—_thank you_, for everything," Allen whimpered. "I'm so sorry."

"You're welcome, kid," Cross said, patting his back. He paused. "But, Jesus fucking Christ, you are grounded. You are _beyond_ grounded. I want your fucking Walkman on the kitchen table and your phone unplugged right next to it. I want everything that has ever brought you goddamn joy on that goddamn table, boy."

Allen cried a little more, if only because this was really going to _suck_.

* * *

**Happy Fourth Birthday, Any Way You Want It! ! ! !  
**

! ! !

!

While it shouldn't be taking a billion years for this story to be completed, I'm just so happy to still work on it. I started working on this when I was 16 in the summer after my tenth grade year. Now, I'm twenty, and going into my third year of college. I love this story more than anything I've ever done, I've put countless hours and effort into writing it, and I've deleted so much and added so many things. I won't lie, I'm kind of a flaky writer on some points—when I lose interest in a fandom, I lose it _hard_.

But this fuckin' story? This fuckin' story is always on my mind—so many things I do remind me of it. So, while the update schedule is not a schedule as much as it is just a wish upon a star, just know I'll never stop working on this until it is 120 percent complete!

I love this shit, and I love _you_ guys.

Wow, I mean, _dude_, all of the messages and care and shit I've gotten from you dudes since the beginning of this story is ridiculous! You wanna know what love is? Ask Foreigner LMAO JUST KIDDING EIGHTIES JOKE HA HA if you really wanna know what love looks like, it's a twenty-year-old black art student in new york city having shitty day after stressful month, opening my email and reading what you have to say about this and me and Emiggax and everything

Thanks. I may seem like a sarcastic dick, and it takes me forever to respond to dudes separately, but I love you all. You guys make me the happiest I'm ever happy. And that means a lot

But I hope you guys are ready for life beyond the Battle of the Bands because it's time to wrap some shit UP. Only ten or so more chapters left, guys! ARE YOU READY TO _ROCK_!

Also you guys need to see Rock of Ages if you love either me or this story I am SoRrY but it is goOooOoD

(and for anyone who lives in new york IS IT NOT HOT AS FUCKIN BALLS omg i need to go a gallery show but shit man it's too much man i can't handle it man)


	40. Pour Some Sugar On Me

_FORTY _

September 18th, 1985.

"It's been, like, a week and a half—why are we still grounded?"

Allen groaned for what must've been the fifteenth time that day. "I don't know, Lenalee," he replied, face pressed to the desk. His Chemistry textbook page smelled like punishment, but maybe that was just what Allen was used to these days. "I _really_ don't know."

Lenalee sighed, twirling her hair with her index finger, her legs crossed underneath the short desk. "It's not like we did anything _illegal_—" she tried, but Allen scoffed loudly at that, turning his head towards her with his cheek still flat to the desk.

"Other than truancy, unlawful neglect of a minor, and, my personal favorite," here he rolled his eyes. "Attempted bribery of an official. Thank you, Link, for everything you've done, mate." He groaned again, turning his face back to the sweet ignorance of the wooden desktop. "This is the worst life, Lenalee. Cross made me get a _haircut!_" His hair was now cut low to his head on the sides with a lightly poufy, curly white top that made him look like a closeted jock more than a musician. It was just…so _lame_…

"You're tellin' me about how much this blows!" the Chinese girl rolled her eyes, arms crossed underneath her sizeable bosom. "Komui took away _everything_—my tape player, my tapes, my room phone, my best posters of Corey Hart—my _everything,_ Al. I don't know if I'll be able to handle this much longer, man!"

"I'm on bloody tax duty," Allen groused. "He took everything I bloody love, including my _hair_, and _then_ made me try and figure out the damned impossible numbers from all the random expenses he's piled up over the years! I don't even know if you can write off body shots in Argentina!"

Lenalee shook her head. "This _sucks_," she said. Allen fully agreed.

The door swung open, and all the chatter from the classroom fell to a low murmur as their blond science teacher walked into the classroom with his arms laden with papers and a couple of books.

"Good morning, class," Federico greeted, a wide smile on his handsome, aging face. "I hope you're all awake and ready for today's lesson—" His blue eyes swept over the class, but stopped on the visage of the notorious, heteroplatonic pair of Allen and Lenalee. "—but not before giving a hearty congratulation to our neighborhood rock stars! Good work, Allen Walker and Lenalee Lee." He clapped a couple of times, and the class shared a heavily confused look with both the 'rock stars' and themselves before joining in and creating a legitimate round of applause.

Lenalee looked around, horribly befuddled, and turned to the teacher. "Hi, Mister Federico, sir, yeah," she began, tapping a finger on the desk as she spoke. "Um. Thanks. A couple of things, though: one, we're _new wave_, not rock. And, two, what did we do, again?"

Federico laughed, a hand on his hip as he shook his head. "Miss Lee, there's no need to be modest, but it's an admirable trait." He then stuck his fist in the air, his fingers closed in except for the index and the pinky finger which both stood out stiffly. It was undeniably the symbol for rock and roll. "_Rock_ _on_, kids. Now, everyone pass your homework to the front, if you'd please…"

Allen raised his head from the desk just to share a truly perplexed look with Lenalee.

What the hell just happened here?

* * *

September 19th, 1985.

Allen was just innocently putting his books in his locker when someone came up from behind him and punched him on the shoulder, _hard_.

"Oh god—" he nearly shouted, swinging around and facing what seemed to be the captain of the wrestling team. "…Huh? _Thierry_?" He only had History with the guy, and they didn't even sit near each other. He only even knew the bloke's name because of the attendance call. "…Did you need notes or something of the sort?"

Thierry was a large, brunet, sort of chubby guy with a very efficient chin beard and he was definitely a senior. He was cool, Allen guessed, but he was another person the English boy only knew in passing. And, honestly, he had expected to be shoved into his locker or something ridiculous like that—he had no idea why people weren't bullying the living _shite_ out of him, but he was grateful for the time being.

"Dude, you _rock_!" Thierry exclaimed, shoving his shoulder in a way that was likely playful, but was only serving to fill Allen with terror. "Like, whoa, I had no idea I was goin' to school with a _rock star_! This shit is so fucking _rad_, dude!"

Allen blinked. "I—" he squeaked. "I've got…to…go, or something…uh…" He reached around himself blindly and pat about the metal lockers, finally succeeding in closing his locker after a couple of seconds. "…Thanks, mate?"

"No problem!" Thierry enthused, grabbing Allen's shoulder before he could properly escape, and grinning at him. "Dude, did you wanna hang sometime? The guys would love to meet you!"

Was the older teen trying to induct him into a homoerotic sports club or some elaborate satanic ritual? Only the Lord could tell. "Hey, I've got to…eat some food or something," Allen tried again, gently prying the meaty fingers from his fragile shoulder. "I'll just…catch _you_ later, mate. All right, yeah?" He immediately began speed walking down the hallway, but Thierry wasn't done.

"I'll see you in History later today dude!" he called after Allen's retreating back. "Rock on, man!"

_Holy shite that was weird,_ Allen thought, turning a corner and leaning heavily against the wall. _What the bloody hell was that even about?_

A couple of girls, cute as girls could be he thought with huge hair and colored t-shirts, passed him. They stopped for a moment, really _looked_ at him, and one began stepping closer.

Allen felt hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. "'Ello ladies," he greeted nervously, and the girls only came at him faster. Within five seconds, they were well within his personal space. "Ach—how may I help you?"

"Y'know, I always thought you were really, _really_ cute," one of the girls said, hands on her hips. Her shirt was red and a bit too big for her, and she donned shorts that might've been a bit too short with socks that rose high on her leg. "But I also kinda thought you were gay, too."

Her friend scoffed. "I thought you were _really_ gay," she added. Her shirt was a yellow tank top over a bleach-washed denim skirt. Her shoes were pumps with a minor heel, and Allen thought they looked rather nice on her. "But I also couldn't really tell because you hung out with Lenalee Lee a lot. You wear tight clothes a lot and that's kind of gay sometimes. But, you _are_ super cute, though."

Allen gazed at them with a wary expression. "Thanks?" he asked, but then shook his head. "Wait a minute, not to be rude, but I've no idea who you are. What's going on right now?"

"And you've got the _cutest_ accent," the red-shirt girl gushed. "And you used to be, like, really short right? Now you're, like, so tall!"

He towered over these girls by at most three inches. "What the bloody hell is happening?" he demanded. "Who _are_ you?"

"I mean, the hair color is kinda extreme," denim-skirt girl replied. "But, I dunno, it really works on you—especially considering that you're, like, a rock star and all—"

Oh _god_, this shite again.

"Ladies, please, I've got to go…" he thought for a moment. "…do some taxes. If I may, I'll catch you beautiful girls at another time?" He was laying it on _thick_. Lavi should be so proud of him, Allen believed firmly.

"Oh, no problem," Red-Shirt said happily. "Anything for you, Allen."

"Call me," Denim-Skirt said, and they backed off his personal space a bit.

Allen squinted at her—how the hell was he supposed to call someone without their number—before he took off speed walking again. This time, he sped through the halls with a destination in purpose, a destination that was _not_ the cafeteria because it felt like eyes were watching him everywhere for God's sake.

When he reached the door, he opened it and rushed into the room before slamming the door closed with his back.

Howard Link stared at him from behind his desk, a mug of coffee raised to his lips.

He lowered the mug. "I'm assuming this means you're no longer angry at me for giving you detention on Cross's orders," he spoke carefully.

Allen scoffed. "You're still an arse for that one," he admitted, trotting across the office and plopping in his favorite chair in front of Link's desk. "But I'd rather give up my _completely reasonable_ rage with you than go back out there into that…_parallel universe_." He shuddered.

Link cocked an eyebrow in question, leaning back in his seat. "What's the problem?" he asked curiously. "You're usually very level headed—what's wrong?" He sat up in his chair suddenly, eyes narrowed. "Are you being bullied? Did someone make fun of your pants again?"

The white-haired teen blushed. "No one made fun of my pants," he assured. "And I'm not sure _what_ is happening lately. I want to call it harassment, but somehow, that doesn't even seem right."

"Hmm," Link hummed, sitting back in his seat. "Explain, Allen. I'm still confused here."

"I don't know, Link, it's _weird_," Allen groused, rubbing his eyes irritatedly. "Ever since yesterday, people've been comin' up to me, people I barely know or don't know at all, and they're doin' really wonky shite! They're punching me on the shoulder, they're complimenting my _height_, they're calling me cute, they're inviting me out with their Wiccan clan mates! But, they've all got _one_ thing in common." He held out one gloved finger, his eyes narrow. "They're all calling me a _rock star_."

Link stared at him. "You're basically living every nerdy teenager's dream," he said amusedly. "And you are _complaining_ about it?"

"It's not funny, Link!" Allen insisted, grabbing at his short hair in frustration. "Nobody at this bloody school should know I'm in a band, let alone that I did anything in an _attempt_ to be a star! We didn't even win—what the bloody hell, mate?"

"That is curious," Link replied thoughtfully. "You guys dropped out—it's near impossible to gain recognition, especially _positive_, from something like _that_. And you dropped out quietly, correct?"

"As a mouse," Allen reassured, shoving the memory of Sherman's three new assholes in the back of his mind. "It just doesn't make any sense, Link! Help me!"

The blond man smiled at him a bit, showing more enjoyment than Allen particularly liked towards his situation. "Perhaps you should make the most of it," he suggested with a small shrug. "You know, socialize with your new adoring fans, make friends that aren't also drop out rock stars."

"You kill me, I am crying with laughter," Allen deadpanned. He then sighed, sitting back heavily in the seat. "I just wish I knew what the hell I could talk to my new fan base about—do I start a conversation about how we went to the _Battle_ completely unprepared, or how we were disqualified for the _stupidest_ reasons in the world?"

"Well, you can start by not talking about the Battle," Link replied, resting his chin on an upturned palm. "Allen, listen. I'm _sure_ you and your band did great, for all the trouble you went through to get there and that far. But, stressing about the bad ending won't bring you any more happiness. Everything will work out, Allen. You need to believe it."

Allen stared at the vice principal, gaping a bit.

"Have you been feasting on fortune cookies or—oh, don't make that face! I was just takin' a piss at you, I'm going to take your advice." The white-haired teen laughed a little, exposing his teeth. "But first—I need to find out where all this fame without the fortune is coming from."

* * *

September 20th, 1985.

"Are you catching the bus today?" Allen asked Lenalee as they crouched through the afterschool crowd, speed walking towards the exit and sweet, weekend freedom.

Freedom that mean very little when you had no phone, no keyboard, and no hair. _Ugh_.

Lenalee nodded. "Yeah, Komui's finally calming down enough to let me get home without supervision," she replied with obvious relief. "I swear, he listens to science talk radio. I was falling asleep while I was falling asleep, dude."

"Bollocks, Lenalee. Pure bollocks." They finally made it outside to an expectedly cloudy afternoon. The buses grumbled loudly in a part of the parking lot, and many students bustled about getting home or getting somewhere fun for this Friday night. "I think I'm going to—"

"_ALLEN!_" there was a loud cry from the bottom of the stairs. "_LENALEE! GUYS! DUDES! BROS!_"

The two teens looked down and found a tall red-haired man jumping up and down, gesticulating at them wildly. "Is that _Lavi_?" Lenalee asked in surprise. "What's _he_ doing here?"

"I've not seen him in a fortnight," Allen admitted. "I have no idea what he would be doing here either. I hope it's not anything terrible, at least."

They began hopping down the stairs, rushing towards their drummer friend with joy in their smiles and excitement strumming through their blood.

Lavi stopped jumping the moment they stood in front of him, and he immediately scooped the two up in a large hug. "Hey guys!" he said happily, squeezing them. "I haven't seen you kids in forever! Like two weeks! You guys look great—nice hair, Al!" He touched the short white cut, grinning.

"I know!" Lenalee exclaimed, hugging him back tightly. "We've been grounded since, like, the beginning of time, dude!"

Allen held Lavi close, grinning into the other male's neck. "If the beginning of time counted as two weeks ago, then yes we have," he said. He leaned back from the embrace. "It's been a long while, though, anyway. After the Battle, I was put on total lockdown, and I wasn't able to see anyone but Lenalee, really!"

Lavi's eye widened, and he released them almost instantly. "Yo, dudes, speaking of the _Battle_, you dudes _need_ to check this out!" He pulled a rolled up newspaper from his front jean pocket, the _Hampton Roads_ it seemed to be, straightening it out and flipping it open. He quickly scanned through the pages, and when he found his target, he shoved the spread out at the two.

"…_Mayor Considers Stepping Down Next Election…_?" Lenalee read, her eyes squinted. "Uh, yeah, not to be a jerk or anything, but politics aren't really exciting to me."

Lavi sighed heavily. "No, _Lame-alee_, the article underneath that!" He jabbed his finger at the aforementioned article, and the high-schoolers leaned back in with squinted eyes.

"_Hampton-Based Rock Band Black Order Rocks and Rolls the Battle of the Bands_?" Allen read out loud, his eyes widening with every syllable. He looked underneath the headline, and good lord there was a picture of them on stage. "What the bloody hell?"

Lenalee grabbed the newspaper, pulling it from Lavi's loose grip. "Huh?" she exclaimed, straightening out the newspaper. "'_Virginia, get your arms ready because there's a war out there—a war for rock and roll! Taking place in Lithonia, Georgia—'_"

"Can you not read the entire article," Allen said impatiently. "And go straight to where we come in?"

"Okay, _jeez_," Lenalee scoffed. She returned her attention to the newspaper. "'_—after multiple stellar performances proving both their mastery and improvisational skills in a high volume arena, Hampton-based band the Black Order took the highly coveted grand prize._' Wait, what." She leaned in closer. "'_Despite major competition, including the shocking third place new wave band Noah's Ark and second place rock band Seattle, as well as surprising runner up, progressive rock band Third, the Black Order proved more than capable as musicians in a professional setting. The final votes were unanimous—'_"

"…" Allen couldn't even speak. Well, except to say, "_Noah's Ark_ got _third place_?"

"And _Third_ didn't even place!" Lavi exclaimed, gripping his hair. "And who the _fuck_ is _Seattle_?"

"Wait, there's more, dudes!" Lenalee shushed them. "'_Members of the Black Order prove to be just as interesting and mysterious as the band itself—just who are these young rock stars, we asked. Lenalee Lee, the energetic singer that won the hearts and hearing of the mile wide audience, is only seventeen, and a twelfth grade student at Hampton City's own Hampton High! The same goes for the curious Allen Walker, the fifteen-year-old keyboardist with a real hard rock look!_' Oh _god_ now everything makes sense!"

Allen turned to Lavi, his eyes probably permanently wide. "Where the hell did you even _find_ this?" he demanded, shaking his head in surprise.

The redhead just laughed, rubbing his bicep. "Dude, I'm just as shocked as you guys are," he replied. "One'na my coworkers came up on me, babbling about some rock star shit, and shoved this newspaper in my face. I took it, read it, realized it mentioned me as some 'good looking percussionist sporting a Hebrew meets Happy Days look and hailing from Hampton,' and I booked it here as soon as I finished reading. I'm technically over my sudden, alarming lunch break by like ten minutes, but this is _important_, dudes!"

"It says here about Kanda that he's a hunky Japanese god on the guitar with a face so mean that it could curdle milk," Lenalee announced. She paused. "That's hilarious."

"Really funny," Lavi agreed. "I couldn't stop laughing the way here because of that shit."

Allen gripped his head again, eyes numbingly wide. "Did anyone forget that it said we placed first, or was I just imagining Lenalee reading that out loud?" he asked.

"No, it said we placed first," Lavi assured him. He frowned. "I just wish we could've found out before _everyone else_, though—this is the paper from, like, Wednesday!"

Allen and Lenalee shared a look. "Federico was on to something," the white-haired teen grumbled. "We should've pushed him for information!"

"I know! Ugh!" Lenalee huffed. Her eyes widened. "Oh my god, _oh my god_, we've got to tell our guardians—dudes, what are we waiting for? We need to catch the bus!"

"And I need to get back to work," Lavi said. He grabbed them both for another hug, quicker this time, and stepped back. "Call me when you want to chill—we need to celebrate this shit, dudes!"

Lenalee hummed her agreement, and started for the buses. "Allen, dude, we need to go," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him down the sidewalk. "This might be our chance to get out of grounded city, USA!"

Allen blinked. "You may be right," he said, and they were running for the buses.

* * *

Allen crashed through the front door, the top of his hair wild and his chest heaving from his two block run. "Cross, yer not gonna believe it, but—holy bloody Christ, it's Neah." He dropped his backpack in shock, his mouth open wide.

Neah Walker sat on the couch opposite of Cross, and he attempted a shy wave at his nephew. "Y'ello Allen," he greeted with a smile. He looked better than he did during the Battle, Allen mused through shock filtered sight. "Nice haircut. How was school, boyo?"

"…Fine?" the teenager finally blinked, and he shook his head in disbelief. "W-what are you doin' here, Neah!" He realized that sounded kind of harsh. "Not that I don't particularly want you here, but _why_?"

"I just wanted to congratulate me fav'rite nephew on his first prize win in a region-wide band competition," Neah replied with a smirk, and Cross snorted in amusement. The Englishman rubbed the back of his neck at that, his lips quirking into a grin. "And, also, as an official judge, I wanted to present you, _personally_, with your prize."

From beside himself, Neah reached over and picked up a long, golden trophy in the shape of a guitar flanked by drumsticks.

"Congratulations, Allen," Neah said, holding out the trophy. "You kids deserved this."

Allen stared at the trophy, then at his uncle, then back at the trophy. "This is impossible," he said, taking some steps forward and plopping down on the loveseat next to Cross. "We, we _dropped out_. We shouldn't've been considered for _any_ prize—let alone first!" He lifted his gaze back to his uncle on his father's side, frowning. "Wait, you didn't cheat for me, did you?" That was not the kind of thing that could win his love.

Neah smirked. "Not at all," he replied. "I was just doin' me job, Allen. However, you've got some real nifty mates, I gotta say! Not a lotta people would'a done what they did fer you kids."

"Nifty mates? Did what they done? _What_?" Allen demanded, eyebrows high on his forehead. "What in hell are ya talkin' about?"

"Language, Allen," Neah scolded lightly, and Allen fought back the urge to roll his eyes. "But, anyway, I was approached with an offer from Tyki Mikk and two poncey members of that rock band, _Third_. The nancies basically told me that they were willing to relinquish whatever prize they received to yer band, and Mikk helped it out by sayin' that he'll drop his band a couple of places in order to make sure that it was fair." The older man shook his head in disbelief. "I'd _neva_ thought I'd see th' day where a bloke with the Earl helped someone play _fair_."

Allen furrowed his brow. "So, Tyki took third place so the competition would be more equal?" he asked, but then he thought about it. _There was a heavy implication that the entire competition was rigged,_ he thought with a frown. _Noah's Ark wouldn't be missing out on much by changing their position anyway—they would receive the prize regardless._ "But wouldn't that hurt _Noah's Ark_'s popularity or something of the sort?"

"I asked 'im th' same, and he gave me this real serious look, and said, 'I'm doin' this fer my happiness, not anyone else's,'" Neah replied with a shrug. "I suppose it was important t' 'im or somethin'. Regardless, _Third_ originally placed second, but I spoke to the other judges about yer unfortunate absence, and those blokes took it very personally, mate! You'd think the _Black Order_ was their favorite." He winked at that, his smile wide.

The teenager smiled a little. "So, then what happened?" he asked.

"I told 'em that _Third_ was willin' t' give up their spot fer your band, and after some official rule book go-overs, we proved it was okay provided all judges were in agreement." Neah smiled widely. "And, yer probably wonderin' how you chaps made first if _Third_ placed second, yeah?"

"Just a bit," Allen admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, _Noah's Ark_ was originally supposed'ta be in first, blatantly, but with them in third, they shoved _Seattle_ a spot above themselves. We liked _Seattle_, of course, but we didn't like them _that_ much. So, there only left one more spot for a band with a lotta talent and a lotta heart—I wonder who got that one, then?"

"It's your shitty band," Cross grumbled out. "There, I answered the question for you. Now can you both shut the fuck up and grow some balls? Your accents are _killing_ me." He mimed being hung a bit and then slumped back on the loveseat.

Allen didn't spare him a second glance. "Wow," he whispered. He looked at the trophy one more time. "Did you all truly believe we deserved it?"

"Not just us," Neah replied with a soft smile. "When we announced you the grand prize winners—the audience went _nutters_, Allen. All this screamin' and cheerin'—the camera crew shoulda caught it, really. I'd never seen a thing like it before. So, please, on the behalf of the 1985 Battle of the Bands hosted by Millennium Enterprises—I'd like to present you with this award." The man held out the trophy.

Allen reached out with gloved hands and took the golden object, holding it close to his chest as a smile stretched his pale face. "I—I, just, wow," he stammered, and he wiped his eyes. "Thank you, _so much. _You even didn't have to do this."

"I didn't do it because you're my nephew," Neah replied, sitting back on the couch. "I did it because I only heard ya perform once, but I'll be damned if it wasn't a great bloody performance! I'm sad because Earl, the ol' fart, thinks the judgin' was rigged and won't be givin' ya any prize money. But I'm _really_ narked that fuckin' Sherman Camelot tried to pull some real shite on ya—but I 'eard ye told 'im to fuck 'imself with a bloody spike. Proud of you, boyo!"

_It's official_, Allen thought with a strained smile. _I'm not living that moment of terror down any time soon._

"Yes, well," he coughed lowly. "How long will you be here?"

Neah's face fell into a small frown. "Not much longa', I'm headed to New York City in the morn. I just wanted ta present you with yer prize and t' drop off your t-shirts."

Allen cocked his head a bit in question. "T-shirts?" he parroted.

"Yep!" the pianist reached down into his satchel, and pulled out a plastic bag. He held it out to Allen, grinning. "'Ere ya go, boyo—ya must remember!" He laughed. "Everyone who competed gets a free t-shirt—teens love free shite anyway, I'm sure."

The teenager opened the bag and pulled out the first neatly folded black shirt. He held it out and watched it unfurl itself.

"Battle of the Bands, 1985," it read in bold, angry white font on the front, with smaller type reading, "_War, Rock, and Roll._"

Allen smiled, bringing the shirt to his lap. "Thanks Neah," he said honestly.

His uncle's wide smile wasn't so awkward anymore as it was warming. Maybe, maybe he could learn to get used to the man he thought rejected him.

Maybe it wouldn't be that hard.

* * *

September 22nd, 1985.

"Where…the _fuck_…is _Tyki_?" Sherman hissed, storming into Lulu Bell's apartment. Lulu sat at her kitchen table calmly, reading a magazine and drinking her white wine gracefully. "Lulu Bell, answer me!"

Lulu glanced at him with a bland expression. "I have no need answering someone so rude that they wouldn't knock before entering my house," she replied in a deadpan, and turned the page in her magazine.

A tan, long hand slammed atop her magazine, and curling fingers pressed into the surface and crumbled the pages into the center of his quivering palm. "Do _not_ play dumb with me, Lulu," he snarled, leaning in close to her unimpressed face. "You know where that fucking _freak_ went—that career-ruining, disgraceful, horrible little _shit_!"

"Hmm, you two are more alike than you think for brothers," Lulu hummed, resting her chin on the back of her pale hand. She crossed her legs, a bare foot pressing against Sherman's knee in a clear attempt to make him back off. "But, no, I don't know where he is."

"I find that very hard to believe, Lulu," Sherman retorted, straightening his posture. He picked up the magazine with tight fingers, and began systematically ripping the pages in his grip. "I keep _very_ close tabs on him, you should know. I know where he is and where he's been at all times of the day—"

"If that's the case," Lulu said with a small smirk. "Then why are you in my home looking for him? Surely you already know where he is then."

The magazine dropped to the floor, and those same long fingers wrapped around her neck in a one-handed, loose grip. Lulu blinked, her blood chilling, and the fingers trailed up her skin in an unnervingly gentle caress.

"Lulu Bell," Sherman purred, his lips turned in a smirk. "You don't want to talk to me like that." The fingers traced the contour of her chin, and tightly gripped the tip between the thumb and index. "I have too much that can destroy you, dear."

"Not enough," Lulu replied calmly. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, however, and she was sure Sherman could feel each beat as though it were his own.

The dark-haired man smirked wider, pulling her chin up into a faux-defiant tilt. "You seem to forget," he said slowly, his voice low. "That I _made_ you. Without me, and perhaps the Earl, you would be nothing. You're a college dropout, dear—your good looks would have only gotten you so far." His thumb traced the outermost line of her bottom lip. "You were nothing before me, nothing but my stupid, bastard younger brother's friend from high school who…'needed a job.' It was just _so_ tough trying to get a well paying job you liked without the 'uncomfortable advances' and lack of a college degree. But the Earl needed a new band, and I won't lie," Sherman's eyes lit up with glee. "You _are_ beautiful."

"This counts," Lulu grounded out, grabbing the man's hand and forcing it away from her face. "As an _uncomfortable advance_." She stood up from the table, glaring at the man as she dusted off her knees. "Get out of my house, Sherman."

"I think it should count as _my_ house, really," Sherman replied, crossing his arms with a smile. "After all, I did give you everything."

"Everything but human comfort," the blonde woman corrected, mimicking his pose. "But, really, get out. Tyki isn't here—I haven't seen him since the Battle, I assumed he was with Skin."

Sherman's face fell back into the scowl of before, his eyes hardening. "I've already checked with everybody the bastard would know, and he can't be found anywhere," he growled, rubbing his chin agitatedly. "Regardless, if he isn't here, then I must continue my search. If you see Tyki, Lulu," here, he narrowed his eyes. "You _will_ inform me. You have my pager number."

And he walked out with nary a "goodbye" or "sorry for kind of sexually harassing you."

The door shut with a soft click, and Lulu let out a breath she'd been holding forever.

"He's gone," she said out loud, walking towards her bedroom. She opened the bedroom door with a disgruntled expression. "Wow, after all these years, and your brother is _still_ the biggest creep."

Tyki sat against the wall next to the door in nothing but his boxers and the wall phone in his hand. He hadn't shaved in a long while, and it showed. "I had to learn from the best," he joked, but then narrowed his golden eyes. "Are you okay? He was really saying some fucked up things—but I don't think he'd ever go so far as risk his 'career' for a couple of gropes. _But_, if he does, just tell me and I'll—"

"Its fine," Lulu slid down to the floor and sat next to him against the wall. "He's just really creepy; I don't think he's going to do anything."

"You never want to try and guess a man's actions, Lu," Tyki replied, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. "I know Sherman—he's really unpredictable sometimes. Just look at what he did to the _Black Order_, out of _nowhere_. Stay on your guard, and don't be afraid to kick him in the nuts or something."

Lulu snorted in amusement. "Speaking of the _Black Order,_" she said, looking over at her friend with a raised eyebrow. "What are you going to do? You can't stay here forever—you're going to run out of underwear, and you can't share mine either."

"I seriously doubt my dick will even fit the circumference of your panties—_ouch_! I'm just stating scientific facts!" He rubbed his arm with a laugh. "But, don't worry, Lu. I need to face up eventually—and I've got a lot of explaining to do, to both the band and our fans. I just wanted to chill out before throwing myself to the dogs, can you relate?"

"I can," the blonde woman affirmed, leaning into his embrace. "Not that I understand why you did what you did, but you are the leader. I'm sure you had a good reason."

Tyki smiled, exposing a bit of his white teeth. "It wasn't the greatest reason," he replied. "But people are happier because of it."

Lulu hummed. "Okay," she said. Then she looked at him with a bland expression. "Are you going to shave or do I need to get a pair of scissors?"

"I rather like having a beard, thank you!"

"You look homeless."

"You'd still do me," Tyki argued, pulling at his chin hairs. "I am gorgeous regardless of housing situation."

Lulu smacked her forehead in exasperation, but laughed anyway.

* * *

September 23rd, 1985.

"So, I'm off punishment for a couple of days," Allen said as he leaned against the locker next to Lenalee's. "I should be able to go to your house for the first time in what must be forever!"

Lenalee closed her locker, hefting her backpack onto her shoulder with a grin. "Radical!" she enthused, ruffling his hair. Actually, that more complicated than it used to be, now that she was a bit shorter than him. "I can't _wait_ to see the trophy—it sounds so ace, ugh." She huffed in annoyance. "I really wish there was a way to take pictures with a phone, or something! Then you could've just sent it to my phone or TV or Komui's computer!"

Allen laughed loudly, and then covered his mouth with a gloved hand. "I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous," he replied. Lenalee laughed as well—it really _was_ a stupid idea, she wasn't going to lie. "But, no issue, I can bring it to you later this afternoon, if that's good?"

"Perfectly fine, it gives me enough time to call Kanda and Lavi so we can celebrate this togeth—oh hello," Lenalee blinked at the tall, okay-looking black guy in front of her, a nervous smile on his lips and a hand held out towards her. "Can I help you?"

"Yes—I mean, maybe," he stammered, sweat forming at her brow. "This is gonna sound mega awkward, but—oh god—when are you guys going to make your first album? I mean, I also think you're really hot for an Asian chick, but I didn't think you wanted to hear that, so I went for the second best question in my mind, and I am talking a _lot_."

"Just a bit," Allen agreed, trying not to laugh.

Lenalee, at the same time, was trying not to grimace. "Um, we aren't really planning on making an album right now," she replied awkwardly, looking at her white-haired friend with an expression begging him to save her. "And, thanks for the compliment, I guess. Listen, we need to get to the bus, so—"

"Oh fuck, I didn't mean to keep you guys!" the black male backed off, smiling awkwardly. "I don't even like rock that much, but if you guys are _that_ good, then maybe I'll give it a chance. I'll see you later, Lenalee!" He trotted away on long legs, his hands shoved in his track pant pockets.

The Chinese girl groaned. "We're _New Wave_!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air exasperatedly. "What about us says _rock and roll_—I don't even _like_ rock that much! Journey never did much for me, man."

Allen released the laughter he'd apparently been holding in that entire time, covering his face as they walked down the hallway. "You're focusing on the wrong thing, sweetheart," he crooned, nudging her with a bony elbow. "You _should_ be thinking more about how _smooth_ you are. Blimey, I just about died listening to you, mate. 'Thanks for the compliment I guess,' well great job patching up his broken heart!" He was laughing so hard that tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes.

"I think it's funny how you think it's funny," Lenalee retorted with a grin. "When you're the school's new Mister Heartbreaker—the new _Is He Gay He Keeps Rejecting Our Advances_, according to many of the girls in my Home Economics class. It's getting difficult explaining that you're still deeply in the closet, Al." She laughed once the gleeful expression slipped off his face into a look of distinct discomfort.

He cleared his throat, blushing. "I'm going to hope to the Lord on high that that was a joke," he muttered, and walked faster to get out the school.

Lenalee laughed the entire time, poking fun at all his new awkward interactions with his schoolmates.

"Wot was dat?" she said as they hopped down the stairs, mimicking his accent horribly probably. "Ya said ya wanna make owt? Ach, sorry mate, I don' kiss lasses, yer girlparts make me sad inside. Ya only want me for me fame anyway, ach! I ain't gonna fall in love wit ya lass—_I'm a rock star, baby_."

"I'm not _Scottish_!" Allen exclaimed, turning around suddenly. He looked, however, like he was struggling not to laugh. "Dear God, you're killing me. Please stop, you're gonna make me laugh so hard I'll cry!"

"Ye should call me when ye wanna do lines of crack off me keyboard," Lenalee continued, straightening her posture and crossing her arms the way Allen did sometimes—oh wait, she couldn't mimic that pose right until she leaned all her weight on one leg. "I'mma _star_, old chap. Ye should pick up me latest single—_Bagpipes in America_."

Allen held true to his promise, and laughed loudly as tears fell from his eyes. He tried to stop, but ended up holding his stomach as he leaned heavily against the girl. Lenalee couldn't help it—she burst out laughing as well, and now they were two whacky looking teenagers near the bus lane holding onto each other as they laughed their asses off.

"I gotta-I gotta catch me bus," Allen wheezed, wiping his eyes. A smile still stretched his face, and a few chuckles slipped from his lips. "I'll be by later today, _old chap_."

"I'll be waiting," Lenalee replied with a snicker. "Don't forget to bring your other single, '_Queen Victoria Goes To Hollywood_.'"

The answering middle finger she received was just enough to send her back into peals of hilarity as she got on her bus.

_Great times,_ she thought, settling into her favorite seat. One of her friends started chattering to her, and she spoke back while thinking about how she'll never have a friend as great as Allen again ever.

_Great times._

* * *

"It took you long enough, jeez," Lenalee groused as she opened the front door. Kanda huffed, shuffling inside and Lavi close behind him. "It shouldn't take you an hour to get here, you can actually drive!"

"Unlike you," Kanda retorted. He walked through the house, picking up things and looking at them before putting them back down in the wrong spot. "God I forgot how fucking shitty Komui's interior decorating skills are."

"And I'd forgotten how intelligent you could be," Komui replied, walking by from the living room and patting the young man on the shoulder. "Oh, right, I can't forget something that never was."

"_Ziiiing_," Lavi whispered, miming an arrow being launched.

Kanda rolled his eyes. "Good one, did you build a robot to think that one up for you?" he replied blandly. "Wait, don't answer that—I don't care." He opened the garage door and walked down the steps. He blinked at the sight of Allen sitting on the couch with his legs crossed as he idly read _Seventeen _magazine. He wore some stupidly comfortable looking black jumper with distressed blue jeans. The kid looked up, and then jumped with a grin.

"'Ello, dear," he greeted happily, throwing the magazine to the side. He stood up, holding his arms wide as he came towards Kanda with what seemed to be some hugging bullshit. Kanda, personally, did not do that touching shit, so he was rather perplexed. "It's been some time since we've seen each other—c'mon, Andy, _embrace me_."

"Or I can just not touch you," Kanda replied, shoving the kid lightly. Allen laughed, and the Japanese man reached out and patted his white hair in confusion. "Who are you supposed to be, Anthony Hall? What the hell happened to your hair?"

Allen grimaced. "It's part of my punishment," he admitted grumpily. The younger teen waved a hand in dismissal, turning back towards the couch. "But, enough about that, how've you been, love?"

"If you keep calling me that shit I'm going to bash your face in," Kanda replied, and plopped down next to him on the couch. "And shit's been fine—needed to pay bills and shit, and catch up on hours at work, but what the fuck ever." Life is _mad menial_ without this band to take up his time.

"Wow…wow that is boring," Allen said with wide eyes. "We are living the most boring lives, _blimey_."

Lavi, _fucking Lavi_, took this as a cue to jump onto the cushion on Allen's other side. "Dude, I work in a _library_," he bemoaned, wrapping his arm around the younger man's shoulder. "You wanna talk about boring? Ugh, I fell asleep reciting the location of J.D. Salinger's bullshit for the eighth time. I don't get what's so good about that book—it really fucking sucks, personally."

"What? You fuckin' suck," Kanda snapped. "_Catcher in the Rye_ was pretty fuckin' legit, idiot. It's all about coming of age in a stupid damn society—how more relevant could that be to us as a generation in eighty-five?"

"I didn't say it wasn't relevant," Lavi argued. "I said it fucking _sucked_. It has a great message, but Salinger went all the wrong ways trying to get his point across through a main character so _bland_, so fuckin' _detached_ that you wonder if something's wrong with society or if something's seriously wrong with Holden personally."

Wow, what an _idiot_. "That was one of the legit parts of the book, moron," Kanda retorted. "The shit wouldn't be the same if he weren't so detached; his attitude helps establish the effects of isolation—"

"I'm so bored," Allen admitted. "Please, I just left school—put me out of my misery, _please_."

Kanda, mouth open, shared a look with Lavi, and the redhead shrugged.

"Sorry," Lavi said with a grin. "I just feel passionately about that shit—and so does Yuu, apparently. Wow, I just had a debate with Yuu Kanda about a vaguely complex book concerning coming of age and the issues of discovering identity. Righteous life, dude!" He held up his hand in preparation for a high-five, but both of his male friends just stared at him like he was the dumbest human on earth. "Okay…_never mind_." He pouted—fuck the haters, man.

Lenalee finally came down the stairs, a grin on her face. "Sorry, Komui wanted to rant at me about being near dudes again," she said. The girl turned to Allen, her smile widening. "So, apparently you've become too tall and good looking to not be considered a threat. I personally can't wait until you turn seventeen and he has to install a forcefield around us."

Allen chuckled nervously. "Thanks, I'd suppose," he said, scratching his short hair. He sat up, reaching behind the couch and pulling up a backpack. "In other news, I've what we've all been waiting for, mates!"

Lavi had to choke back a squeal, and Kanda had to choke back laughter because of that. "I'm so fuckin' excited, dude," the drummer said, nearly vibrating in his seat. "Come on, open it, _open it_!"

"Calm, my friend," Allen said sagely, and unzipped his backpack. Reaching inside with gloved hands, he pulled out a pretty sick looking golden trophy. Kanda stared at it, eyebrows furrowed. "Isn't it a beauty?"

"_Dude_!" Lavi exclaimed, holding out his hands. "Let me hold it! Please, I'll treat it like a small baby recovering from a life altering traumatic experience!"

Allen stared at him, his lips pulled down as though disturbed. "That…that does not comfort me," he admitted, but gingerly held out the trophy anyway.

Lavi grabbed it, also gentle, and awed over it like it was an actual small baby. Kanda squinted—but did it have any traumatic experiences is the new question.

It was pretty fucking cool, however, Kanda was willing to admit in his head only. He was still confused as fuck on the details about how they got this _anyway_, considering how they dropped out the competition, but he assumed the kid would tell them eventually. Or, he could bully the kid into telling them, either would do.

Lenalee was crowding over Lavi, oohing and ahhing at the trophy, and Allen just looked overly happy. Kanda snorted—this was so gay.

He touched the trophy; well, the guitar part. "Pretty sick," he admitted grumpily.

"This is so cool!" Lenalee gushed, eyes wide as she traced the contours of the golden metal. "I never thought this would ever happen!"

"Me neither," Lavi agreed. He paused, his brow furrowing. "Wait, Al, how—"

Komui opened the door, poking his head through into the garage. "Hi, guys," he greeted with a smile. "So, I'm opening the door, one, because you all sound like you're jerking off, and I was ready to sever all of your nuts off one by one with a surgical knife if you were doing so while Lenalee was in the room."

Allen blanched. "That's disgusting," he said, crossing his legs tighter.

Lavi gagged. "That's really detailed," he groaned, subtly covering his crotch with the trophy.

Kanda scowled. "Go fuck yourself," he suggested, crossing his arms.

"It's supposed to be, thank you I just came up with it, and I'd rather not," Komui replied to each of them, still grinning. "But, the second reason, I'm thinking you guys should come into the living room. Someone mentioned you on the evening news."

Everyone froze, eyes wide.

"Huh?" Lavi said out loud, and everyone moved at once to the living room.

It was a four person, teenaged stampede from the garage through the hallway into the living room, where Komui sat on the couch in front of the boxed, wooden television already. The four scrambled to find seats, where only Lenalee and Lavi got the other two seats on the couch, so Kanda sat on the ground, his fingers intertwined in front of his knees, and Allen sat on the arm of the couch next to Lenalee.

Tyki Mikk seemed to greet them with a (still creepy) smile from the grainy television set. He was donned in a well-fitting polo shirt and sunglasses, and he still looked kind of dumb. "_Mr. Mikk, you've been missing for days, without informing anybody of your whereabouts!_'" the television reporter spoke quickly, a microphone in his hand. He shoved the mic in Mikk's face, and Kanda grimaced. The dude needed to shave, and pronto. "_Is this related in any way to your untimely third place position in the well anticipated Battle of the Bands? How do you really feel about the Black Order's first place win, despite them coming out of virtually nowhere and failing to compete on the final day? Are you rocking a new look with this new beard?"_

"How is that last question relevant?" Allen asked, but was quickly shushed by the rest of the room.

"_Well, I must say, the answer to your first question is no,_" Mikk replied, smiling charmingly at the camera. "_I, personally, needed a break from the demanding world of the music industry after nonstop performances and studio time. As you know, Noah's Ark's newest album is out, on digital disc, so it's been a bit tiring being the frontman for such a successful band._"

Kanda cocked an eyebrow—this guy was really caught up in himself, especially for someone who either needed to trim his beard to look appropriate or shave that shit off completely.

"_But what about the Black Order?_" the reporter pressed.

Mikk gazed at him in disinterest. "_What about them?_" he replied shortly.

"_There are rumors that their shocking win was brought forth by you and various other bands,_" the reporter said, eyes darting to the camera every other word. "_Not that your commercially successful band would be horribly effected—but don't you fear the results of the competition will affect your popularity negatively?_"

There was a short pause as Mikk thought about what he was going to say, his face titled towards the sky in his musing. "_The votes were casted,_" he replied simply. "_People want to hear what they want to hear—I feel no threat from the Black Order, however. They were a cute competition, but at the end of the day, Noah's Ark is still going on tour in December._"

"_Really, now? And what about—whoa!_" Mikk was suddenly grabbed by what was undeniably the huge drummer from his band. The camera panned to the side, and Sherman fucking Camelot fixed his tie as he sneered at all of Hampton through the lens.

"_Oh fuck_," they all heard Mikk grumble through the television. "_I just wanted to get a milkshake, jesus_."

"_This questionnaire is over,_" Sherman said curtly. "_Any further inquiries will need to be redirected to the appropriate offices of Millennium Enterprises. Thank you for your cooperation._" Skin carted Tyki Mikk into a closely parked town car, and Sherman followed them inside.

The reporter stood there for a moment, gaping.

"_Okay then…I guess it's time for the weather—"_ Komui stood up and turned off the television, scratching the back of his head.

"Well this is just interesting," he said, turning around. "I didn't believe you when you said you placed first, Lenalee, but now I'm confused. Where did the rumor about the other bands stem from?" His eyes narrowed in disapproval. "I know that I never allowed you to participate in the first place, but if you guys cheated—"

Allen waved his hands expressively, his eyes wide. "No, no cheating involved!" he said. He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. "It's kind of a long, odd story, actually."

Komui crossed his arms, and everyone else looked at Allen just as impatiently.

"Then," the Chinese man replied. "You might want to start telling it."

* * *

Surprise! ! ! a new update in three days did you know I forgot I could write whole chapters in less than 3 months i'm counting this as that double update son-this shit is crazy pour some sugar on THIS

Well y'all already know this shit ain't gonna bode well for anyone, but man oh MAN have I missed being able to use exact dates to speed this fuckin shit along….the battle was so strenuous on my patience omg

Allen's new haircut is here 2 stay….if y'all need a reference I can draw that shit for you or you can search Anthony Michael Hall in breakfast club…..i feel like nobody actually knows what I see in my head concerning how everyone looks…..y'all do know that Lavi's hair is 80's fluffy right…..damn life is tough when ppl can't read your mind

I just made a fanfic tumblr today tho….you should follow me and shit or not idc (yes I do)…the name's "dats-my-dog" on tumblr CHECK IT BRUH

shout outs tho: first one to **Angel Fantasy** who will receive a reply to her sweet ass AWYWI antagonist essay once i stop being a bitchass good for nothing brotha. the second goes to **Baniita** for answering the antagonist question with "the lack of updates"...that is some funny shit this is one funny motherfucker y'all need to give them props it's so hard to laugh at the internet these days. the last one is for **The-Butterses** because i was in the middle of a really shitty rainstorm in brooklyn while i read their review and damn that shit was mad touching. mad touching y'all...y'all is mad touching i swear i'll reply somehow

let's get ready for the return of anita bitchessdksjds


	41. The Edge of Heaven

_FORTY-ONE_

September 27th, 1985.

"I can't do this," Lavi bemoaned, smacking his forehead. Allen paused from where he did his homework on the ground, looking up at the older teenager.

"Do what?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. "Not make a scene as you lounge on the couch?"

Lavi stuck out his tongue, making a point to lounge even deeper into the couch. "No, dude," he replied, stretching his legs. "I can't do _this_. Dude, we didn't win that shit." At Allen's shocked expression, he barreled on with his explanation. "I've been thinking really hard about this—hear me out, dude."

"I've suspicions that I will not enjoy this listening experience," the English teenager replied drolly.

The red-haired male shook his head. "I don't like having people I've never met come up to me saying shit like, 'hey dude! Wow I didn't know you were a first place rock star!' and whatever! All I ever wanna say is, really, 'sorry, you're mistaken—I'm actually a huge loser that is a current victim of favoritism and happenstance!'" he explained with much gesturing and other assorted hand motions.

"Don't you think favoritism is a bit much to describe it as?" Allen asked, putting down his pencil and facing the redhead entirely. "At first, yes, I thought it was an attempt from my uncle to get my affection, but when he told me about _Third_ and Tyki and the other judges, really—I don't know, perhaps it is a legitimate win?"

"There is _nothing_ legitimate about this," Lavi replied with a disapproving click of the tongue. "I know, Brit—it's hard to admit, but this is bullshit." Allen winced a bit, but the redhead pushed forward. "We don't _actually_ deserve the first place award, Allen, and you know this. Dude, I actually feel _shitty_ for getting an award, for the first time in my life, man!"

The younger teenager rolled his eyes, swallowing back a nasty sort of feeling he couldn't describe. "Not even counting the time you won the statewide aerodynamic science essay competition when you were eleven?" he asked sarcastically, trying to change the conversation somehow.

"It was a regional competition for bio-marine science, first of all," the redhead corrected him with an amused click of the tongue. "And secondly, I was thirteen. But nice try at changing the conversation, babe."

Allen cocked an eyebrow. "Please, don't call me that," he requested calmly, but his interest continued to be piqued. "But, I'm still rather confused. How do you feel like shite for accepting an award that was given to us by the appropriate board of judgment?"

Lavi shook his head, sitting up on the couch. His arms, tanned with light coverings of red hair, gesticulated as he spoke, "That's not what I'm saying," he countered. "I wouldn't feel like shit _if_ it had be given through the appropriate modes of judgment. I _wouldn't_ feel like shit if we'd received the award through a fair and understandable play. I wouldn't feel like shit _if_ this entire sitch didn't seem like a never-ending ploy to shit on our fucking band. There are a thousand reasons I feel awful for this, and they are all pretty damn legitimate."

"I disagree," Allen said, if not a bit weakly. "Not all of those are legitimate—"

"First rule of debate team," the older teenager interrupted him, holding up one long, callused finger. "Don't be a sissy about it. You don't think my argument's legit? Well, Brit, tell me how!"

"Err, well," the English boy swallowed minutely, and wet his lips, "It did go through the appropriate modes of judgment—yes, I understand that my uncle is likely a biased member of the board, but still."

"'But still' my _dick_," Lavi scoffed. "It's way beyond bias, sweetheart. We didn't participate in the final event, and not even because we quit. We only quit because we were _disqualified_. We were disqualified because of a rule in that goddamn book that said, basically, _no relatives on the judging board guys sorry_!"

Allen could feel his stomach pooling with the guilt. "Well I'm bloody well _sorry_ that my estranged, drug-addict uncle turned out to be the mystery man of the fucking year," he snapped, unable to keep this conversation purely polite.

"I didn't _say_ that it was your fault—" Lavi said, but his tone of voice was very irritating.

"You never _say_ these things, Lavi, but you always mean them!" Allen exclaimed, smacking his forehead in exasperation. "'_That's not what I said,' 'I wasn't saying that,' 'I didn't SAY that,_' then what did you _actually_ mean to say, Sir Wank?"

Allen could tell Lavi was also getting frustrated, and he was pleased that he was finally making an impact against the Jewish male.

"If you'll let me finish," Lavi started slowly, and Allen almost laughed at the hypocrisy. "I didn't say it was your fault. I'm saying that, at the end of the day, Sherman had a fucking point, and we were rather rightly disqualified."

"By you insisting that Sherman was correct, you are thereby arguing, _once again_, that this was my fucking fault," Allen hissed, standing up. He stood over the seated teen, his arms crossed angrily. "But, please, continue."

Lavi looked up at him with one dispassionate eye, his lips curled in the deepest frown he'd ever seen them. "You're being real obnoxious, Allen," he said. "And, yeah, I'm saying Sherman was right. But I'm not saying it was your fault, because I know it _wasn't_. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't my fault, it wasn't your druggie uncle's fault—no one's to fucking blame, because we were set up!"

Allen rolled his eyes. "Indeed we were," he replied blandly.

"In-fucking-deed we were, you're goddamn right," Lavi growled, standing up as well. He began to pace the garage, his body tense with negative emotion. "We were never supposed to win—this was a huge fucking joke between the Earl and Sherman to see how many people they could fuck with at one time. We were doing so fucking well—but then, out of nowhere, your _uncle_ becomes judge, and then we're disqualified? Real rich, right?"

The English teenager just watched him stalk the space with half-lidded eyes and tightly closed lips. He refused to speak until Lavi was finished with his point.

"But, it gets even better—everything's already paid for, the cameras and news already know the deal, and, when we were disqualified, we should've just taken it as is and left. And, well, we did. We leave, right? It should've been a clean cut—the _Black Order_ falls out the music world in shame, and _Noah's Ark_ wins the competition for the like billionth time. But then, it turns out we've got a crew of goddamn guardian angels—doin' god's work and forcing us into a spotlight we never asked for and that we _clearly_ don't deserve. This is a fucking _joke_!" Lavi snarled, dragging his hand down his forehead.

"A joke?" Allen repeated, an eyebrow cocked.

Lavi turned to him, his face unnaturally cool. "Yeah, a fucking _joke_," he said lowly, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets. "This whole—whole _thing_ is a joke. It's too unpredictable, it's too risky—I can't—"

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Allen demanded.

Lavi strode closer to him, close enough to tower his greater height over the younger teenager. "This _band_ isn't a career," he said calmly. "There's nothing for us here. This entire event should be a lesson, sweetheart—we aren't cut out for this." He shook his head, disgusted. "There are cutthroat jobs, and then there's _this_ bullshit. We're just playing instruments, and all the business wants to do is destroy us. To _humiliate_ us. I'm not asking you to disagree or agree—I'm just telling you how it is."

The two males stood there, in the middle of the garage so cluttered with familiar instruments and objects. Lavi, always trying to be the eternally smart one, the _never-wrong_ sort of bloke, stood over him with a small smile peeking at his lips.

Allen shook his head in disbelief. "You're unbelievable," he said.

Lavi cocked an eyebrow. "Whazzat?" he drawled.

"You sound like a complete asshole," Allen replied, and with one last cold glance, he walked away from the older teenager. His footsteps echoed on the concrete ground, and the sound was the only thing to keep him from going back and shoving his friend in the chest.

The door opened. "Hey Al—whoa!" Lenalee yelped as Allen squeezed past her, stalking down the hallway. "Are you okay?"

Allen did not answer. He didn't think he could.

He opened the door, just as Lenalee asked a likely still standing Lavi, "What's up with Allen?"

He didn't stay for the answer, and he started for the bus stop with a bubbling stomach of guilt.

* * *

September 28th, 1985.

Allen didn't usually hang out at the mall's food court when he was having a huge mental upheaval and a growing pool of guilt eating away at his innards, but today was somewhat special.

"I truly hope you are worth the seven dollars I just paid," he said to his new copy of _The Vampire Lestat_ by Anne Rice. He'd been anticipating the next novel in the series since 1982, when he gleaned a couple of quid from Cross after winning yet another game of craps and bought himself _Interview with the Vampire_. While seven American dollars seemed a bit steep to him, he was almost certain this book would be a savage garden of macabre antiheros and rock stars.

However, post his decision to buy the book, Allen was caught at a bit of a standstill. Did he go home to read the book, and sub-sequentially continue his Lavi-induced train of thought concerning this bloody Battle win and what it meant to succeed in a band; or should he just stay in the mall, surrounded by enough people so that if he _did_ continue the train of Lavi-induced thought and had the urge to make any unattractive expressions the fact that he was in public would be more than enough to dissuade him?

He almost grimaced, and that's when his decision was made.

So there he sat in a lonely booth next to the Taco Bell, idly nibbling at his Nacho Bell Grande as he thought about how much of an arse they would be if they went back on the First Place win. And, of course, his eyes roved over the pages of Lestat's preternatural narration. He was quickly starting to find that this Lestat was nothing like the mysterious enigma of the _Interview_, but he was willing to push forward.

"Well I'll be," a light, overly condescending voice called out, and Allen furrowed his brow a bit. He couldn't help being curious about the speaker, especially since it sounded like it belonged to a woman who was well used to being a huge bitch for no apparent reason. He somehow got that from three words, but was sure there was a bit of truth somewhere in there. "If it's isn't the little rock star! Although, at a second look—you ain't so little anymore, Mr. Walker."

And, once again, Allen found himself bemoaning every decision he had no control over. As in, winning the Battle, going through puberty, and things of that nature. "Ah, I apologize," Allen started with a smile, looking up from his book and drowning pit of negative thoughts. "But I've no idea who you—oh, what a surprise!"

Allen didn't think that 6 or 7 months could seriously change how one perceived another human's image, but in the 6 or 7 months he _hadn't_ seen Eliade, it's almost unnatural how attractive she still is.

She smiled—well, _smirked_—down at him, and then she just stood there. Allen looked back up at her, and then to the seat in front of him. She cocked an eyebrow in waiting, and he resisted the urge to pull at his gray Gap shirt collar.

"W-Would you like to sit?" he offered.

Eliade's smirk widened. "I'd love to," she said, but before he could verbalize why in the world wasn't she sitting, the blonde woman continued, "But I thought, from my memory of a little, awkward, oddball shrimp of a kid that he was a gentleman and don't _gentlemen _get the seat for a beautiful woman?"

Allen blinked, and huffed out a laugh as he put the receipt for the book in the middle of the pages as a makeshift bookmark. "Well, I'd suppose it's in good luck that you _are_ rather beautiful," he joked with a smile, standing up and walking over to stall in front of Eliade. "For you, milady?" He pulled out the seat and gestured towards it with a flourishing motion, bowing forward.

"Why thank you Mr. Rock Star," she said, amused, and sat down. Allen returned to his seat in front of her, and left his book untouched. He had a feeling he was in for a bit of conversation.

She didn't speak at first, instead taking her time to rove over his appearance with striking light-brown eyes. The English teenager sat there, trying not to fidget as he waited for her to speak.

He was still somewhat shocked to be seeing Eliade in all her exceedingly lovely glory, to be honest. He never found himself attracted to anyone, women especially, but there was something to be said for a woman who wore two pigtails and still looked like she was created from marble.

"You may be prematurely gray in the worst way," Eliade started, _finally_. Allen let out a breath of relief that the silence was broken. "But you've taken this whole aging thing very well, kid. If I wasn't dating Arystar and you weren't about twelve years younger than me, I would consider maybe being interested."

That was only one of the finest compliments a skinny British fifteen-year-old boy could get from a likely supermodel. "Why thank you," he said sincerely. "But, the age gap isn't something a lot of people worry about, I feel." _Bloody Tyki_. "But, you mentioned Krory! How is he? Oh, I haven't seen him since the time he was destroyed in poker and I had to step in!"

"Arystar is fine…still a total dweeb, but he's fine," Eliade replied with a playful roll of her eyes. Allen grinned, glad to know the odd man was still doing well. "But let's talk about you, Kid Wave. Other than puberty's current success story that is your life, what's the deal, Rocky?"

"Your nicknames perplex me," Allen said quietly, but continued in a normal tone of voice, "Well, I'm just fine. I go to school, I get rather nice grades, I make music. Sometimes I like to sit and read, and I think too many blokes find me attractive. I just got off being grounded about a week ago after skipping school for two days to go to the battle of the bands in Georgia, and then I found out that the competition was basically hacked in our favor and I got into a huge tiff about it with basically my best mate." He ate a chip from his Nacho Bell Grande. "But life's been better than expected. And you, Miss Eliade?"

"Drop the 'miss,' your accent makes it sound super sarcastic," Eliade responded with another smirk. "And somehow, while I'm sure I wasn't meant to know the last part, it makes a lot of sense. I won't say that I've ever heard your music, because I haven't, but there's no way _you_ dopey looking kids got first place in a region wide competition." And she topped off the nonchalant statement with a shrug.

Allen was a bit offended. "We did pretty well," he defended with a small frown. "But then we dropped out the last day."

Eliade cocked an eyebrow in question. "How would you place if you didn't even go through the entire thing?" she asked with a scoff. "That's got to be super unfair to everyone else that competed, like that band _Seattle_. With a name like that, they _should've_ won."

"Nobody likes bands named after American cities and states," the white-haired teen retorted, giving her a suspicious look. "And it wasn't _our_ choice on whether we placed—it turns out I'm rather intricately connected to the judging portion of the event." He paused, swallowing back the excess saliva in his mouth. "And…I…oh, blimey, I can't."

The blonde woman reached out and pat his head condescendingly, leaning forward with a grin of devious intent. "Aww, little Rock Fraud, it's okay," she cooed. "Tell Mama Eliade all about it."

"Rock fraud—okay, regardless," Allen sighed, looking down at the bold, dark cover of _The Vampire Lestat_. "I feel so _guilty_. You're correct, it's _not_ fair to the almost a hundred bands that participated, and while I'm fairly certain that _Noah's Ark_ was going to cheat anyway—well, it all just feels so _wrong_."

Eliade hummed, stealing one of his nachos. "Despite it all being a fraud and you four are horrible people for letting this happen—no, no, it's fine, I took a psychology class at Maryland State once, this is supposed to _help_ you," she explained with a rather mean smile, and Allen struggled to keep his face neutral. "Did you enjoy receiving the trophy? And, despite the crippling guilt that keeps you up and prevents you from returning to a normal lifestyle—do you, in any small amount, think that _maybe_ you performed well enough to place in any way?"

"Maryland State must be a truly abysmal school," Allen replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "Do I think that we performed well enough to place at all?"

He thought about it—he really did.

They were good, Allen thought. They were good before he joined, and they were good including him. The _Black Order_, koozbane name aside, was a rather upbeat quartet (Kanda wasn't upbeat but surely Lenalee and Lavi's enthusiasm made up for his glowering outlook) with more skill than expected in their chosen instrument. It's almost natural that they came together and that the songs they made were of more exemplar skill.

But, Allen forced himself to tape on to his thoughts, they were not…great.

He mused about his fellow band members, lips pressed in a thin line as Eliade helped herself to the rest of his Nacho Bell Grande.

Kanda's a perfectionist. But only with Mugen—he wasn't exactly fond of waiting for the rest of the band to catch up to his level, and only worked in perfect tandem when it was beneficial to advance his skill. Otherwise, he didn't really put in his best. Perhaps.

Lavi was the complete opposite of a perfectionist. The redhead was a near genius in every subject, including the drums, but he experimented. He always experimented, even with songs they made with set notes and tabs, and he didn't seem to take the entire thing very seriously. Of course, now Allen knew why, but it was still a bit of an affront to the band's efforts so far.

Lenalee was probably the most enthusiastic and important member of the band, with a voice that was great and her active attempts in getting the band to perform anywhere. From their first silly performance at Noise Marie's club, to their opening for Noah's Ark—it was all really Lenalee's efforts that got them out there at all.

And, Allen thought about himself. He played the keyboard, yes, and he fancied himself rather good at it. He felt, sometimes, as the secondary leader, or the beta male of their four-man-band. But, sometimes, he thought himself as just going along with the ride. He was great at talking to people and could easily get what he wanted, but he had the worst habit of separating himself from the band if he thought something was in danger of not working out and that he was the reason why.

They were great friends, they were great musicians…but they did not make a great band.

They were good, however.

"Perhaps…not," Allen said weakly, threading his gloved fingers through the top of his white hair. He groaned. "This is much too deep thinking for me—but, now I'm rather annoyed!"

Eliade, with a small dot of sour cream on the corner of her lip, swallowed before speaking. "Annoyed about what? Your failures? Your bogus win? The fact that you're a solid seven on the hot scale to ten and everyone thinks you're gay?" she asked.

Allen was slowly remembering that being beautiful did not make you a nice person. "No, _no_, and I have no idea what to say to that last one," he tried not to roll his eyes. "But, Lavi, you remember him, yeah? Lavi told me yesterday that he did not believe that we deserved the win, and chalked it all up to the fact that at the end of the day, in his words, being in a band was much too unpredictable and not a valid career choice for any sensible human being."

"Do you agree all of a sudden?" Eliade snorted in amusement. "Listen, Baby Bop, I'm not saying that you four should completely forfeit everything that makes you a group of cute kids with instruments, but think really hard about what you've done in the past year or however long you've been a 'band,'" and Eliade made the finger quotes. Allen was sure she was not a nice person at this point. "And, in my humble, million-dollar opinion, I don't believe that a career is a predictable, controlled thing that you should aspire for at your young age of sixteen."

"Fifteen, but thank you!"

Eliade looked at him one more time, nodding in approval. "Not bad for fifteen at all," she praised. "But, no, seriously. Your career, or whatever it is you do for the rest of your life, should be whatever puts some sort of smile on your face. Nothing is predictable, and nothing works out one hundred percent in the beginning. It's your decision on whether you love playing the xylophone enough to continue doing it for the rest of your life, and if it also makes you money—well, that's a bonus, if nothing else."

Allen was pleasantly surprised. After all that biting commentary and mind-boggling questioning, Eliade really managed to top off this conversation with a nice, useful moral.

"So," he started, a small smile on his face. "What is it that you do for a living, Miss Eliade?"

"Drop the 'miss,'" she said, once more, and smirked widely. "And, I am an accountant."

Allen's face dropped, _hard_. "An…accountant?" he repeated.

"An accountant," Eliade said proudly. "And, not only that, but I enjoy my job. Did you know Arystar's shop's returns are almost in the tens of thousands? What a great guy."

"I can sufficiently say I didn't see that coming," Allen said honestly with a small laugh.

Eliade lifted her shoulder in a small shrug. "Most people think I'm some sort of huge bitch or supermodel, but I get that because I'm gorgeous," she replied. Then, her hands flat against the surface of the table, she stood up more sensually than Cross on the female prowl. "All right, Hardknock Star, I've got to be going."

The fifteen-year-old grinned. "It was lovely talking with you M—Eliade," he corrected himself at the sight of her raised eyebrow.

"Great speaking to you too, Mr. Solid Seven," she said, leaning over and patting his cheek. He struggled to look anywhere but her cleavage, and for the most part succeeded. "Do what you think is best. I don't care about what's right."

Allen nodded, and waved as she left.

Eliade paused, and turned around.

"By the way," she called from halfway down the food court. "That book sucks, and ends with this really shitty cliffhanger about his first concert. He almost dies, also."

And she sauntered away, leaving Allen and a few other mall goers completely dumbfounded and a little aggravated that the ending was spoiled.

Allen looked down at his newly purchased book. "I'm doing something else," he sighed, and walked towards the entrance of the mall.

Stepping outside into the cool autumn air, he considered what he could do or who he could hang out with.

"Oh," he hummed in interest, and patted his pockets down for change. Successfully finding a quarter and a dime, Allen walked to the sidewalk payphone and picked the phone off the hook. Slipping the change inside, the English teenager waited for the tone before dialing up one of his favorite people with a devious smile.

* * *

Kanda found it inconvenient when his phone rang about ninety-nine percent of the time, but somehow it was especially unwanted when he was jerking off in the shower to ease off unnecessary energy.

"Fuck," he groaned in annoyance, pumping his dick a couple of more times before stepping out the quiet stream. This was the second time someone had tried to call him in the last five minutes, and it was weird. He had no idea if he should ignore the call and finish off his hard on, or answer the phone with a boner to cut steel.

_Riiiing_. The sound was incessant and very fucking irritating, so Kanda cursed and grabbed a towel to wipe his hands before he left the bathroom.

Reaching the kitchen counter, Kanda wrapped the towel around his waist, and hoping his erection would die down by the time the conversation ended, he answered the phone with a snarled, "Who the fuck keeps calling me?"

"_Well, a good afternoon to you too, dear,_" Allen's sarcastic tenor sounded, and Kanda's blood chilled.

_Oh fuck_, he thought with an indecipherable widening of his eyes. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

"What the hell do you want?" he grumbled, keeping his free hand well above his somehow still-hard dick. "I was in the shower, dork."

"_Well that's a better explanation than I was expecting_," Oh this just wasn't fair. How could anyone have such an annoying yet…_attractive_…voice over the phone? "_But, regardless, I've wasted two quarters waiting for you to answer!_"

"Tough luck," Kanda replied, his hand trailing idly over where his wet skin met his blue towel. "You still haven't told me what the hell you want from me. Make it quick, loser." The pads of his fingers dug into his skin, dipping minutely underneath the thick towel.

"_Wellll, if you're so excited to know,_" Allen drawled, and Kanda bit his tongue. "_I'm currently at the mall near the News, and I wanted to know if you, by any chance, wanted to…chill? That's not the word—no, hmm, uh—_"

Kanda rolled his eyes. "You're gross," he replied. "You called me at, what," he leaned over to look at his cat clock given to him from Chaoji, "five in the evening because you wanted to 'chill?' No way, dickweed." He navigated lower, his fingers threading through coarse, short hairs.

"_Oh, Kanda, please?_" the British dweeb begged. "_I don't want to go home, and it's a Saturday, and I'm not grounded and—and I'll buy you dinner_."

What a deal breaker—the kid never bought food for anyone that wasn't him or his stomach born from the seventh circle of hell.

"Huh," Kanda grunted, and thought about it. This was not a good idea, considering how he was seconds away from jacking off to the sound of the asshole's voice, and would probably need some time to really sit and think about what it means to give the five-finger-fist salute to the thought of one of his…friends…and it would not be good to masturbate to Allen and then go to pick up the subject of his fucking wet desires so they could 'hang out.' He would be in Kanda's house, in Kanda's _room_, and he would probably see some shit that he wasn't meant to see. Then again, it _was_ free food, and it's not like he was planning on doing anything later. Fuck, he should not do this; this was _not_ a good decision. "I'll see you in thirty minutes, doofus."

"_Wicked! I'll be sitting outside the mall on the bench next to the parking lot entrance!_"

"I call where we're gonna eat, freak." And Kanda hung up the phone.

Then he walked awkwardly back into the bathroom, back into the shower, and gripped his dick like it was a fucking scepter.

"Fuck," he groaned, and jerked his fist over his erection rapidly under the semi-warm spray of water.

Another bad decision for Yuu Kanda, the dumbest fucker to ever have a functioning dick ever.

* * *

"You seemed very at ease today," Allen commented as they walked into Kanda's apartment. "It was…nice."

Kanda shrugged vaguely and threw his keys on the kitchen counter. "Yeah, well," he started, stiffened, and then growled a curt, "Whatever."

Allen blinked, perplexed, but then shrugged. Kanda would always be extremely odd, which was probably what made him so endearing.

But, honestly, Kanda did seem very chilled when they went to Denny's. Or, at least, he wasn't super snappy and only insulted him every other word that spewed from his lips instead of the usual always. He ordered a burger, ate half and gave the other half to Allen without saying anything, and left a two dollar tip for Toma. Even though Toma wasn't even their waiter.

He must've done something that really let a load off him, Allen surmised. He appreciated it, whatever it was. He didn't need any more stress in his social life, especially with his only other male friend, and the only one that he wasn't at odds with.

"Hey, dork," Kanda snapped, and Allen blinked in surprise. He really lost track of his thought for a moment there. "You can go in my room. My television's broken, and my record player's in my room or some shit. I don't know what the fuck you want to do and why you thought it would be fun to be here, but whatever."

Allen was being let into Kanda's room? Their relationship really _has_ advanced since the beginning.

"We can do whatever, it makes no difference to me," he said with a smile, and walked the short distance into Kanda's sleeping space.

Kanda huffed, rolling his eyes. "I need to find my shit, so don't fucking touch _anything_ you little asshole," he said grumpily, and stalked off into the living room area.

"Don't touch anything," Allen scoffed. Now why would he do anything like that?

He turned around and looked about the room with a curious eye. The last time he'd really seen the room was on Kanda's birthday, and it seemed rather messy. Now, it was cleaner, but there was a pair of pants and a dark blue towel thrown on the floor. The desk was fairly well organized, covered with notebook paper and piles of guitar song books. A single lamp sat on the surface, flanked by a pencil cup and an analog clock. It was curious to see how someone as stern and irritable as Kanda could occupy a space and still let it look so lived in.

Allen wandered deeper into the small room, catching sight of a dresser next to the older teenager's bed. It was pushed against the wall, a dark shape against the flat white.

He came closer to the dresser, somewhat intrigued by a seemingly unfitting piece of paper against the surface.

A yellowed envelope was settled on the top of the dresser, the top edge nearly torn to pieces in the effort to get the contents out. Allen resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer Kandacity of it, and continued with his observation.

"_Jackass" _was hurriedly scratched out in pen, instead reading _Yuu Kanda,_ underneath it in the center. _Apt. 3, Foxhill Apartments, Hampton, Virginia._ His eyes roved to the top left corner of the envelope, feeling a sort of foreboding in his heart settle thickly.

"Alma," he breathed, reading the name aloud. "Karma."

The name struck no chords of remembrance in his mind, but somehow he knew he just entered personal territory. His curiosity itching, Allen looked at the rest of the dresser, only finding a couple of twelves and a leather bracelet. The floor between the dresser and the bed was also a no-go, being almost creepily clean in that one spot.

The bed, while slightly messy, donned covering dark enough to notice anything unusual.

Things like, well, the paper trapped between the pillow and comforter.

Allen stepped to the bed slowly, paranoid of the older teenager's untimely entrance. He honestly did not want to piss off Kanda to the point where it stopped being a joke and started ruining their friendship.

With a steady hand, he slowly pulled the paper from its place. He immediately realized two things, though, once it was within his possession: it was a letter, and it was heavily wrinkled, as though it were balled up at some point.

Licking his dry lips, Allen brought the paper a little higher, so he could read without squinting.

_Hey,_ it started in a legible scrawl, which Allen was thankful for. _What's happening, asshole? _

_I heard from the gang that you're doing pretty all right down there in Hicksville, USA. I mean why wouldn't you be? Other than how you're a total pussy, you're pretty tough, dweeb. You're dumb as shit though, it's fucking hilarious how stupid you are. I managed to graduate All Hollows with a B average, and you became salutatorian? What the fuck is up with that? Virginia has some mad low standards, brother. _

_Speaking of low standards, I found out you have a crush from Tokusa. How cute, little old Yuu having feelings for someone. It really is adorable though, how in the years you left New York, you've been trying to get a life of your own. Well, I've been doing pretty fucking well myself, brother. I have a job—pretty bomb, right? Ex-juvie turned well-to-do citizen. At least I didn't start a band, right? Yes, that was me making fun of you, so don't strain your brain over it. _

_Congrats on your win with the Battle, loser. Emphasis on the loser—people love you waaaay too much, dweeb. But I don't expect you to take this hand out, mainly because you're such an independent woman. I told Madarao this, and he just did that weird shrug-blank face thing he's real good at. Fuck him, he's so fucking mysterious._

_Also heard from Zu that you've been calling him about once or twice a month. I'd complain about that too, but I don't have a phone, so it's pretty useless. Even though I'm sure I've been living in the same crappy-ass apartment in the Bronx forever, so it makes no sense why you can't write me like I'm doing you. Actually, you make no sense, so there's no sense in trying to make sense of your lack of sense. Well, other than how me and the gang agree you're just a big old girl under that "masculinity". Explains how you'd get pissy once a month back then. Zing! _

_Anyway. I got your address from Tokusa, who got it from some guy you know, apparently. I'm just writing to say hi, and to say that you should visit. I mean, you will visit. I'll kick your ass otherwise, brother._

_Love you,  
Alma K._

_P.S.  
If I don't get a reply in a couple of weeks, you've got some bad karma coming your way. Get it?_

"Hey, brat," Kanda called from somewhere else in the apartment. Allen looked up with a start, clenching the paper tightly in his gloved hands. "I've got Pepsi and I've got Coke. I was gonna put a bowl of water on the floor, but I thought it'd be nicer to give you a choice."

His heart attempting to burrow out of his chest, Allen held a hand over his chest to restrain the deafening motion. "How does one have both Pepsi _and_ Coke?" he yelled back, hurriedly placing the paper between the pillow and comforter. "That's rather odd, aren't they enemies?"

"They taste exactly the fuckin' same, that's what they are." Kanda walked to the doorway, holding a red can of Coca-Cola. "So, really, it doesn't matter what I give you." He held out the can, and Allen almost reeled back in surprise from the lack of projectile throwing and other expected methods of transport with Kanda.

"Th-thanks," he stammered, but then shook his head. _Who is Alma Karma?_ He wanted to ask terribly, but instead busied himself with opening the can. Bringing the metal to his lips, the teenager grimaced at the bitter, lacking taste of Coca-Cola. There was a reason he stuck to Pepsi, and it wasn't because the two tasted the same. "Ugh, this is disgusting."

"Your haircut is disgusting," Kanda replied readily.

"Thanks for noticing, you're so very sweet," Allen replied sarcastically. He held the can in his hands, looking everywhere but at the older teenager in front of him. "I," he started, eyes stuck on an old acoustic guitar with more snapped strings than not. His words caught in his throat, and he hurriedly took another gulp of disgusting, _terrible_ Coca-Cola.

Kanda raised an eyebrow. "What's your issue?" he asked, circling around Allen with a lot more grace than he ever really gave him credit for. He stepped in the small space of the room like he was walking through an empty auditorium; those sure steps heavy with confidence.

Allen sort of envied him.

"Nothing," he replied, stepping out the way so the other male could do…whatever it was he was trying to do. Allen watched him move around the room, observing behind a can of soda. There was something about Kanda that was, well, queer. Not in the homophobic, American way—but rather the appropriate, weird sort of way.

He was all long limbs and taut muscles, Allen thought. Tall and fit and ridiculously attractive with dark blue eyes and carved Oriental features. Allen would never truly believe Kanda was a hundred percent Japanese, but he won't deny the possibility of him being at least half.

Kanda usually seemed so tense, as well. With a near-permanently clenched jaw and tightly wound arms, the bloke always looked ready to start a fight in a bar. Today really was one of the first times the older male hadn't seemed ready to commit mass murder, and it was a wonder what kind of difference a bit of calm could make.

The Japanese teen dragged out his desk chair and sat in it with an unfurling slump. He dropped a small plastic bag on the top of the desk and opened the first drawer on the side. He pulled out a variety of things; Allen didn't really pay too much attention. He spread them out near the small bag.

"Can I sit on your bed?" Allen asked, swallowing back another acidic sip of Coca-Cola.

Kanda gave him such a 'are you a fucking idiot' look over his shoulder that Allen almost rushed to plop down on the oddly soft bedding.

After a couple of minutes of Kanda doing whatever he was doing at the desk and Allen looking at the bare walls, the older teen spoke up.

"What would you do…if you…missed someone," he ground out, his shoulders tense enough to strum. "But you hated every fucking thing about that person…and they wanted you to go back…but going back would fuck up _everything_?"

Allen struggled to not choke on his soda, and when some of the liquid slipped from his lips he was quick to wipe it away.

"W-what?" he stuttered, and struggled to get out some words that wouldn't make Kanda force a knife through his chest. "I, uh, I must say this is rather unexpected, but, erm, why?"

Kanda groaned loudly, his head falling forward onto the desk with a loud thump. Allen winced, and hurried to fix his statement.

"If I missed someone, I don't know what I'd do," Allen said, forcing his thoughts into a form of semi-sensible speech. "There are only so many things that could happen. If I missed someone a bit, I'd likely not do much. If I missed someone a load, I'd also try not to do much. Sometimes I think that missing people, anyone, can be perceived as a form of weakness—like, as humans, we don't want to miss a person because missing them means we weren't strong enough on our own. But, really, maybe missing people should be more celebrated—as in, accepting that the person made such an impact on you, and choosing to actively contact the person as in to show your appreciation."

The black-haired male had turned around, scowling but oddly curious. "But I hate the _shit_ out of this person," he countered. He stood up, and stepped over to the bed with long-legged strides. The long-haired male sat down next to him on the bed by the pillow, inciting a bit of a squeak from the mattress. He held a long, brown cigar-esque stick in his fingers, and he stuck it in his mouth before reaching on top of his dresser for the pack of matches.

He lit the end of the cigar-structure, and took a deep inhale.

The bitter smell was immediately thick between them. "If you hate them," Allen replied, pulling off his shoes and bringing his socked feet on top of the comforter. "Then that still means they left an impact on you. I don't exactly understand how you could hate someone and miss them, but it's more important, I'd guess, to first think about why you miss them and then why you hate them."

"I hate them because they're fucking awful people," Kanda replied. He held out the cigar-thing towards Allen. "Take a hit, dweeb."

"But why would you miss someone if they were so awful?" Allen asked, and, with the marijuana-cigar-contraption trapped between his gloved index and thumb, he took a deep inhale, opening his lungs. "Is this about someone you know?" He passed the, erm, well— "What in the world is this thing you've wrapped your devil's grass in? It's much too long to be a joint, and it looks like a cigar!"

"It's a blunt," Kanda said blandly, taking the _blunt_ and partaking in another long hit. "And, no, it isn't about someone I know." He blew out the smoke in a billowing cloud. "Let's not talk about this shit anymore. Entertain me, brat."

Allen blinked. "I'm sorry," he replied with a wide smile, a fuzzy feeling already clouding his brain. "But I don't know any nice tricks at the moment. Do you know any smoke tricks?"

Kanda snorted in disdain and took another hit.

He opened his mouth in a circle and rings tumbled out from between his lips.

The English boy clapped, delighted. "Blinding," he said, grinning.

Kanda smirked, smug. "I've got a couple of more, _if_ you think you can handle it," he retorted, handing over the blunt.

Allen could handle it. "I can handle it," he said, his voice a tad deeper than he meant for it to go. "In fact, I'll try it myself."

He took another hit, and opened his mouth in a way similar to a circle. The smoke escaped in a wild dance, and he laughed.

"You fuckin' suck," Kanda said, but he looked like he might be smiling.

Allen grinned back. "But I tried," and he passed it back to Kanda.

* * *

Sorry dudes, the anita part is actually next chapter. I forget this was the minute sexual realization chapter as well as the inklings of the end. Hopefully you guys weren't tripping over your nuts for anita lmao because I def wasn't

I'm really sad to say this but the only reason I was able to get time to write this was because of the hurricane. My neighborhood got banged, but some places in nyc were straight up fucked. If I seem melancholy, I'm sorry guys, I know I'm usually more energetic, but this fucking sucks. I've been real unhappy lately, it seems.

However, I like this chapter. I liked writing it, I like reading it, and I hope you guys like it too.

Stay safe, stay cool, buddies. Kaza outtt


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